


Sea Foam and Sunshine

by Jenetica



Series: Hook, Line, and Sinker [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Lifeguard Derek, M/M, Merman Sheriff, Merman Stiles, Merpeople
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1589819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenetica/pseuds/Jenetica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek's job at as a lifeguard is dull, sometimes, but he saves lives, and after everything that happened with Kate, that's all he needs. So when he sees a swimmer out after closing hours, too far into the deeps to be safe, he plunges into the water without thought.</p><p>He didn't know at the time that maybe, just maybe, this time it was his own life that he was saving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Song of Wind and Water

**Author's Note:**

> I read a lot of mermaid fics. This is the result.
> 
> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are my own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: This fic now has cover art! Check out the AWESOME [photo manip](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/post/91430770335/sea-foam-and-sunshine-by-jenetica-t-20k) from [bleep0bleep](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr! I'm so in love with it.

He's not supposed to be on the beach this late. No one is; the beach closes at ten, and anyone out past then can get cited for loitering.  
  
But, hell, the day Derek Hale bows down to human rules will be quite the day, indeed. So, instead, he sits back in his lifeguard's chair and flicks the dim screen of his tablet, enjoying the calm white noise of an empty beach. Becoming a lifeguard wasn't part of Derek's life plan, originally. In fact, he'd hated water as a child, turning his nose up when the pack would flock to the preserve's tiny lake on hot, sticky summer days.  
  
Things changed after Kate, after the fire. His entire family, save for his sister and badly scarred uncle, burnt up in ten minutes of blaze. And all he could do was watch.  
  
Derek's not sure when his feelings about water shifted to that of competition. Water is consumptive and tempestuous, but, unlike fire, it could be overcome. Derek couldn't ride the flames that licked his family to ash, but he could ride the waves of water as they crashed around him. Somehow, that made him feel better about everything. Like even if he could control one element, he could control the other. Add to that werewolves' natural tendency to pick jobs that capitalize on their heightened skills (firefighters, policemen, lawyers, et cetera), and _poof_ , lifeguard.  
  
It's mostly an easy job. Derek sits on his chair and tunes out the din of the crowd around him. He tilts his ear instead to the gasps of breath coming from the surf, carefully waiting to see if they get too strained. His supernatural hearing usually picks out distressed swimmers before they've really sunk into a panic, which makes it easy to save them before they're really in danger. Sometimes he counts how many lives he's saved, and wonders if they'll ever make up for the fourteen he's lost. He doubts it.  
  
Derek clicks his tablet off and stands on the foot of his chair, stretching his back. The seas today were hard and choppy, so he'd had few swimmers to watch: most resort-goers choose the pool on these kinds of days. Still, the day felt long and arduous; Derek had sat at attention all day, hyper-vigilant for those few swimmers who did brave the water.  
  
His watch reads just after eleven. Time to go home. Derek slides his tablet into its waterproof sleeve, then into his bag. He throws on his shirt and slides the bag over his shoulder. He turns to climb down his ladder, when all of a sudden, a flash of pale streaks against the black of sea. Derek stops and blinks. It's too dark for human eyes to see, so much so that he can't make anything out without shifting. Derek casts a glance around to check for company— there is none— before letting his eyes flash to blue. His teeth and fingertips tingle, but he reigns in the rest of his change. Caution is one thing, stupidity's another.  
  
His world immediately becomes brighter and grayer. The waves look black as ever, and Derek feels ridiculous for his paranoia. But then, just as he's about to give up, Derek spots the whiteness again. It's an arm. Someone's out there.  
  
Two years ago, the cold, black sea would have given Derek pause. Now, he barely even thinks before tearing off his bag and shirt, racing into the depths. He had a life to save.  
  
The water is frigid and, without a buffer of sunlight, Derek breaks out into goosebumps about twenty feet in. Werewolves run hot, so they're superficially sensitive to cold, even though it takes them far longer to catch hypothermia. Derek lets that knowledge calm him as he cuts through the tide. He won't die out here, no matter what.  
  
As he nears the spot where he saw the arm, he begins to make out a faint heartbeat, steady but too slow to be healthy. Derek speeds up his strokes and prays he can reach the person in time. Who the hell comes out here this late, anyway? Do they have a death wish?  
  
Derek sees another flash of skin, far closer than he'd expected, and pulls to a stop. He sees no foam, no sign of struggle. Whoever is out here is just as comfortable with night swimming as he is. "Hey," Derek calls, treading the water, "you can't be here this late. The beach is closed."  
  
A pale head breaches the surface, and Derek's breath catches. It's a boy, no older than nineteen or so, and his round, surprised eyes just about glow in the darkness. He opens his mouth and Derek swallows hard: they're full of pointed, sharp-looking teeth. Whatever this boy is, he isn't human. He closes his mouth with a click and dives back into the water.  
  
"No!" Derek cries, lunging to grab the boy. Experienced swimmer or no, the deeper waters were treacherous at night. He grasps nothing, thought he feels the slide of smooth, delicate skin slide over his jaw. Skin like a fish's tail.  
  
Derek spends another minute or so treading the water, waiting to see the boy surface somewhere. He gives up after he counts to ninety and coasts on the waves back to the beach. He nudges his shirt over his damp, salt-sticky skin and grabs his bag, heading for home. Whatever creature he just encountered, he'd deal with it in the morning.  
  
The morning, however, brings no relief to Derek's mind. The boy plagued him in his dreams, a vision of white and gold, all sharp angles and streamlined curves. He wakes frustrated and curious, and hurries through breakfast so he can get back to the beach, strung out on a desperate hope that proximity to the encounter will yield answers. It doesn't.  
  
Derek spends the entirety of his shift watching for a pale stretch of skin and, when all he does is save a teenaged boy trying (and failing) to impress his new girlfriend, he walks home with a resigned set to his shoulders.  
  
"Hey!" Erica greets when he walks through the door. "You're home early!" She's in the kitchen, running what smells like cilantro and olive oil through a food processor.  
  
"My shift ends at four," he reminds her, even though he knows she has his schedule memorized. They all do, Erica and Derek and Isaac and Boyd, the league of werewolves-turned-lifeguards that banded together as soon as they met. As annoying as they can be, Derek loves to come home to an occupied house. It doesn't quench the homesick ache in his heart, but it dulls it.  
  
"Thanks, dumbass," she says, opening the processor and adding peeled cloves of garlic. "What I meant was, it's strange to see you home so soon after your shift. Don't you usually go for a swim, or something?"  
  
He does, but Derek itches at the thought of being so predictable. "Sometimes," he grumbles. "Not today."  
  
Erica snorts and starts cutting tomatoes into large chunks. "Whatever, dude. Isaac's in the shower and Boyd's on his way to the beach. You want salsa?"  
  
"Yeah." Actually, Erica's salsa sounds amazing right now, even more so than usual. She claims it's an old recipe from her Puerto Rican abuela, borne of sweat and tears. Derek doubts it's that hard-won, but he isn't about to argue. The stuff is, like he said, _amazing_.  
  
Isaac flies into the kitchen soon after Erica and Derek settle around the opened food processor canister, looking hungry. "I smelled cilantro," he explains, swooping in to steal Erica's chip before she can eat it.  
  
"Hey!" She slaps him on the arm, hard. "Rude."  
  
"Wha'evah," he drawls, mouth full. "Go', das goo'."  
  
"Isaac," Derek growls, "apologize. Erica doesn't have to share her food with any of us. You should be grateful."  
  
He's not their Alpha, but he's a few years older than them, which makes him their surrogate, of a sorts. Isaac ducks his head and swallows his bite. "Thanks, Erica."  
  
"No prob," she says easily, grinning. "Off on your hot date, then?"  
  
"Date?" Derek asks, lifting an eyebrow.  
  
"His name's Danny," Isaac says, the corners of his lips curling shyly. "He's from Hawaii, but he goes to college at UC Davis."  
  
"Is it serious?" Derek asks, shoving another chip into his mouth.  
  
"I dunno." Isaac's cheeks tinge pink, and Derek takes that to mean that the answer is a yes, at least on Isaac's end. "We've only gone out a few times."  
  
"Well, be safe, and if it is serious, let us know if you want to have the Talk." The Talk being, of course, not one of sexual education but rather one of filling in a human on the supernatural world and its many diverse habitants. It's a Talk Derek wishes he could have had with Kate. Maybe if he'd been more open with his family about her, she wouldn't have burnt them to the ground. Or maybe she would have done it anyway. It doesn't matter now.  
  
Isaac rolls his eyes. "Yes, _Dad_."  
  
Derek shrugs, unrepentant. "I'm happy for you, you know that. No one deserves someone more than you. Just be communicative with us, okay?"  
  
Isaac smiles, and it's a soft, happy thing that lights up the entire room. "I can do that."  
  
Isaac still hasn't spoken of his past, other than his Turning. He was out one night with his father, arguing, when they'd both heard a noise. Isaac stayed back, but his father arrogantly walked toward the noise, into an alley. A few loud, wet-sounding seconds later, something black pitched out of the alleyway and bit his hand. He'd been a werewolf ever since. His father was found two days later, mangled. Derek doesn't like to read too much into situations, but it's clear that there was no love lost between Isaac and his father. If the way he flinches back from shouting is any indicator, Derek can see why.  
  
It's made Isaac the innocent of all of them, even though Erica's the youngest. They take care to protect him, even when it makes him petulant and angry. Usually, though, he takes the love quietly, with warm eyes and happy, quiet smiles.  
  
"Well, I'm supposed to be there in ten minutes," he says, scratching a hand through his golden curls. "I'll let you know how it goes when I come back?"  
  
"Have fun," Erica tells him, planting a loud kiss on his cheek. "I'll be expecting lots of details."  
  
Isaac blushes and cuffs her on the shoulder before leaving the house. Erica grins after him fondly. "What a little tiger, off to slay some hearts."  
  
"You want to spy on their date, don't you?" Derek asks flatly.  
  
Erica gasps, mock-offended. "That would be completely invasive and inappropriate."  
  
Derek shoots her a look. "Give me five minutes to put on clean clothes, okay?"  
  
"Okay," she hums happily, scooping a loaded chip into her mouth. "Wear something festive." She dusts off her hands. "I think I'll wear that purple dress, the one with the straps?"  
  
"Knock yourself out," Derek sighs, hiding his grin. Their band of rogue betas wasn't a pack, not really, but Derek would be hard-pressed to say they weren't a family. It almost erases the sting of loss from his heart, and it's more than he could have ever hoped for.


	2. Feeling Shiny and New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to the first chapter was incredible! I seriously never expected anything like that. You guys are amazing. 
> 
> Updates should be frequent, just so you know. :)

The next few weeks pass by in a blur of days, and Derek has himself just about convinced that the boy he saw at night was a figment of his tired, bored imagination. He's stopped checking the waves periodically after his shifts and has taken up reading again.  
  
He's halfway through _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , a book chosen at his roommates' behest. Watching an episode of TV a night helps them all relax after a long day at the beach, and apparently Derek is the only one who hasn't yet read all of the books from the TV show _Game of Thrones_. Now he's hurrying to read through them all so the losers he calls his friends don't ruin it all for him.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye he sees something move, and it's just familiar enough that he lowers his tablet in shock. The boy is back. He's fifty yards from where Derek saw him last time, a little closer and farther west. Derek knows he should ignore it and file a report in the morning or, better yet, let the strange, non-human boy be. He knows this, yet he finds himself climbing down from his post, anyway, taking one step after the other into the calm surf.  
  
He gets closer to the boy this time before he calls out. Derek can see the delicate ridges on the boy's spine, now, as well as the way his skin gleams under the dim moonlight. It's beautiful. "I won't hurt you."  
  
The boy, just as before, freezes and pops his head over the surface. His eyes are beta golden and his face gleams just like his back. Like scales, Derek realizes. The boy blinks at him and spins to swim off.  
  
"Wait!" Derek cries. What is he doing? Why is he pestering this kid? "I won't hurt you. Please. I've already seen you. There's no harm in at least telling me your name."  
  
The boy turns slowly, eyes wary. "Stiles," he says. His voice is strangely high and reedy, and rough from disuse. "Call me Stiles."  
  
A wave of relief crashes through Derek. Somehow, actually hearing the boy respond makes all of this real. "Stiles," Derek says. "I'm Derek."  
  
"What are you?" Stiles asks suspiciously. "I swim far enough from the shore that pink-skins can't see me, especially not on the Long Tide."  
  
"Pink skins?" Derek asks, bemused.  
  
"Yeah." Stiles rolls his eyes, and Derek swallows when he sees two extra layers of eyelid move with them. "You know, surface-dwellers? What you are? Your skin is pink. Look." Stiles swims forward and presses his arm against Derek's. Stiles feels cold and slippery smooth against him and his skin is gray-blue against Derek's own. "See? Pink."  
  
Derek feels a powerful swish of water against his calf and everything clicks into place. "You're a mermaid."  
  
Stiles freezes and pulls away slowly. "You can neither confirm nor deny that," he says. He licks at his pointed teeth nervously. “But if I were, I'd tell you that I'm actually a mer _man_. There's a difference.”  
  
"Merman. Right,” Derek says faintly. “I won't tell on you. I live in secret, too: I'm a werewolf." And wow, that wasn't supposed to come out so quickly.  
  
"A nightstalker?” Stiles gasps, rearing back. "I thought you were legend."  
  
"That seems to be a growing trend around here," Derek says, eyeing the webbing between Stiles' fingers. He flashes his eyes blue just to watch Stiles react. "So you're really a merman, then?"  
  
Stiles grins at him, somehow terrifying and beautiful all at once, and flops onto his back. Derek feels a current sweep up his body and suddenly there's a tail in front of him, a five-foot length of red and gold scales. The tail shimmers and twists and Derek gets a face full of water. Stiles laughs, a strangely melodic noise considering his speaking voice, while Derek rubs saltwater out of his eyes. "I like you," Stiles decides.  
  
"This is how you treat the people you like?" Derek growls, blinking past the burn of salt. "I'd hate to meet your enemies."  
  
"Yes, you would," Stiles agrees, and the serious note in his voice sends something icy cold down Derek's back. "So what's a nightstalker like you doing in the water? I thought you were inland types. You know, ground-kelp and stuff."  
  
"Ground-kelp? Do you mean trees?"  
  
Stiles snaps his slick fingers together. "That's the one."  
  
"We are," Derek says, "usually. Sometimes my roommates and I head into the local forest for full moons, when we're feeling homesick." Truth be told, Derek started to hate the forest after the fire, the way it gave Kate freedom to hide her bags of mountain ash and her bottles of gasoline. The open face of the beach was more his speed now. "But we're happy wherever."  
  
Stiles turns toward the east, where black is just starting to give way to lighter blue. "It's daybreak," he says quietly. Derek blinks; has he been out here for that long? Hours? How? "I need to get back to my people."  
  
Derek feels a thousand questions burn in his throat. He swallows all but one of them. "Can I see you again?"  
  
Stiles shoots him an unreadable look. "Can I trust you?"  
  
"Who would believe me?"  
  
Stiles smiles at him. "Okay. Meet me here in five days. Bring something shiny."  
  
"Something shiny?" Derek asks, brow furrowed.  
  
"Oh yes," Stiles replies. "Merpeople love shiny things."  
  
"Okay." Derek can feel a bemused smile stretching across his face. "Something shiny then."  
  
"See you then!" Stiles turns and dives through the water, cutting down and away in the blink of an eye. A sparkle catches Derek's eye and he sees a lone red scale glittering on the surface of the water. He catches it, rubs the flat of his thumb over it, and holds it tight when he swims back to shore.  
  
He walks home in the bleeding dawn and lets himself into his silent home. Shock creeps over him slowly, until he's sitting on the edge of his bed and holding the delicate scale between his cupped hands like it's the only thing keeping him sane. Shit, it _is_. He's just met a _merman_. That's stuff from fairy tales. Literally.  
  
Derek showers and puts the scale in a glass of water (do scales dry out? Either way, he doesn't want to take the risk), then crawls into bed. Thank god he has nothing going on today. He sends a quick text to Erica telling her to make sure the apartment stays mostly quiet until ten or so. He could use the shuteye.  
  
Five days later finds Derek tearing through his apartment, trying to find something appropriately shiny that won't erode or tarnish under water for extended periods of time. It's a difficult task.  
  
Absentmindedly, Derek strokes at the ring around his neck while he wracks his brain. He freezes with the ring around the nail of his index finger, then pulls the leather string holding it up and over his head. It's his mother's wedding ring, a band of brushed titanium, harsh edges worn down from decades of wear. It's the most tangible connection that he has to his family; everything else was lost in the fire.  
  
He considers it for a moment, but the sacrifice is too great. He can't give a stranger his mother's wedding ring, merman or no. He slides the leather back over his neck and renews his attempt to find a shiny thing for Stiles.  
  
He eventually piles everything vaguely metallic or sparkly onto the coffee table in the living room. Aluminum foil, some of Erica's jewelry he found lying around the house, old CDs and DVDs, a cheap handheld mirror, paperclips, and Derek's razor. It's not an inspiring load of possessions. He glances at the clock and curses: his shift starts in ten minutes. He frowns down at his collection and throws the lot of it into a plastic bag. He'll let Stiles decide.  
  
He feels dumb for taking this so seriously. Derek has this strangely deep urge to impress Stiles, even though he knows nothing about him. There's something in the spark of his eyes, the turn of his nose, that makes Derek ache with intrigue. Or maybe it's the way Stiles speaks, cautiously and with phrases Derek's never heard before. He's just so _new_.  
  
His shift is long and boring. He's only hit on three times, which is a relative low, and they all give him the standard frowns of indignation when he turns them down. If Derek gave more than zero fucks, he would be disgusted. As is, he has better things to do.  
  
Except he doesn't. No one loses their footing or inhales a lungful of water. Derek spends the entirety of the day losing the feeling in his butt. When the last vacationers leave, dragging a cooler of melted ice behind them, Derek stands and makes his way to the surf, ready to swim the feeling back into his legs. He's barely warmed up when he feels something circle his ankle and tug. He flails in the water and goes under, feeling the his fangs and claws slide into place in an instant. He surfaces and turns to face his attacker, snarling.  
  
Stiles raises both hands, looking terrified. “Hi! Sorry, sorry, my bad! Are you going to kill me?”  
  
Derek sighs and reigns in his wolf. “No,” he says, scratching his jaw at where his muttonchops have receded. It always itches when the change is sudden. “Jesus, Stiles, I could've, though.”  
  
“Well, I'm grateful you didn't,” Stiles says happily. “So, how are you?”  
  
The dregs of adrenaline in Derek's system make him irritated. “Well, jumpy, for one.”  
  
“Oh,” Stiles says, face falling. “Hey, I really am sorry. I tend to do the wrong things, sometimes. Dad's always telling me to think through my actions first, because I do so many stupid things. Are you angry at me?”  
  
And fuck, the kid looks completely heartbroken. Derek sighs and his anger evaporates. “No, no. It's just been a long day. You're fine.”  
  
Stiles tilts his head. “Why was your day long?”  
  
“Come on, I'll show you.” Derek swims toward the shore until he can walk. “Wait, how far in can you come?”  
  
Stiles grins and promptly beaches himself. “Good enough?”  
  
Derek's shocked into laughter. “Yeah, good enough.”  
  
Stiles beams and wriggles in the sand, and Derek can't help but stare. Stiles looks almost human down to his waist, where the skin tapers into brilliant scales ranging from burgundy around his back and sides to the gold of sunset down his front. In addition to a massive caudal fin, Stiles has fins on his flanks and a dorsal fin peeking out around where his knees would be. It's stunning.  
  
“See something you like?” Stiles asks lasciviously, caudal fin flicking. It's obviously meant to be a joke, but Derek finds himself flushing anyway. Derek rolls his eyes and grabs his bag of goodies, steadfastly avoiding the tiny part of his brain that wants to flirt back.  
  
“I wasn't sure what you wanted, so I brought a bunch of stuff,” he says, sitting down on the sand next to Stiles. “Pick whatever you want.”  
  
Stiles opens the bag like it holds the Spirit of Christmas itself. “Holy squid, Derek,” he whispers. “Are you kidding?”  
  
Derek feels his ears heat up. “It's just stuff I found lying around the house,” he blusters, inordinately pleased with himself for no reason at all.  
  
“Shut up,” Stiles says, fitting Erica's bangles on his wrists and clasping every last one of her necklaces around his neck. He shoves the CDs on his fingertips and lays a square of foil over his lap. “I feel like a king. Do I look amazing?”  
  
He looks like an idiot, fingers spread wide around the discs so his webs are stretched thin, and Derek feels his face split into a wide grin. “Absolutely regal.”


	3. Pizza 101

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. This chapter underwent a lot of editing (like a LOT), and I'm still not sure if I'm completely satisfied. I just can't stare at red ink anymore, you know?
> 
> Also, I have tentatively decided to extend the length of this story by an estimated double, because I was unhappy with how tiny the plot was. There is now a long haul involved, and I expect you to be prepared to bear with me. 
> 
> Un-beta'd. If anyone out there would be interested in beta reading this story, I would cry and fall over a lot and be grateful in an eternal way.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~I'm sorry for this note. It's been a long day.~~

Stiles beams at him, and it makes something in Derek's stomach flip. “Awesome.” He pushes the CDs off his hands and shakes his arms so the bracelets jangle. “I don't know which to pick. They're all so pretty.”  
  
“Take it all,” Derek offers. It's nothing that can't get replaced, and to Stiles it's clearly priceless.  
  
“Are you kidding?” Stiles laughs. “All these riches, people would talk. I'd be found out. No, I have to pick one thing.”  
  
“Found out?” Derek frowns. “What do you mean?”  
  
Stiles bites his lip with pointed teeth. “Uh, it might be illegal for me to talk to pink-skins? Like, put to death illegal?”  
  
Derek's blood runs cold. “Holy shit. What the fuck are you doing here, then?” He shuffles to his feet and makes shooing motions.  
  
“Raging against the dumb laws that were made centuries ago,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes like his life isn't at stake, which, hey, _it is_. “We were discovered about three hundred years ago by sailors, and humans went nuts trying to find us again. The oceans were filled with boats and nets and nasty hooks that stuck in our skin. And if you were caught, well.” Stiles shrugs, and it's painfully morose. “You never came back. We keep the hooks as a reminder of all that we've lost and all we managed to protect.”  
  
Derek knows that sadness; he sees it every day in the mirror. Seeing it on Stiles now is heartbreaking. “Those laws don't sound too dumb to me," he says, almost to himself. "You shouldn't be here.”  
  
“But you're not human!” Stiles says excitedly. “Don't you see? It's the ultimate loophole! Plus, I'm basically going down in history for meeting a— what did you call yourself? A werewolf?— at all. It's, like, the winningest of win-win situations.”  
  
Derek, a win-win situation? That's utterly laughable. “So which are you going to pick, then?” Derek asks gruffly, changing the subject.  
  
“I dunno,” Stiles says anxiously. "I like these," he rustles the bangles around his wrists, "but these are the shiniest things I've ever seen," he flips through the stack of CDs, "and mirrors are really useful underwater.” He crinkles the foil, "this stuff, too, probably. What are all these things?"  
  
Derek frowns down at the items and does his best to explain each of them. The mirror is easy, as is the jewelry. Paperclips are a little more difficult because Stiles doesn't know what paper is. The CDs, however, leave Derek agape. How to explain modern, advanced technology to someone who doesn't even know that an entertainment industry exists? Do merpeople have music, theatre, art? Derek thinks he could pass them off as inconsequential— how would Stiles be the wiser?— but he doesn't. Stiles deserves, at least, to get a good answer to his question. So Derek explains theatre, then movies and music, then the concept of recording, and the concept of intangible storage. Stiles looks completely overwhelmed, but he urges Derek to continue every time he stops for breath. Derek can't help but oblige.  
  
Stiles insists that Derek show him “these movies things” and picks the mirror to take back. He doesn't take the bangles off, either, and Derek has to work to hide his smirk.  
  
Sometime during Derek's long, rambling explanation, Stiles had started squirming in the sand, even though he refused to interrupt Derek, and now he looks downright uncomfortable. "What's wrong?" Derek asks.  
  
"Hmm? Oh, I'm just drying out a little, I think. I've never been out of the water before."  
  
He's never been out of water before. Derek can forget, at times, that he's talking to someone so very alien, but then there are moments like this one that jar him back to reality. Stiles is a merman, living somewhere in the depths of the ocean that Derek likes to watch documentaries about. He's never walked a street, heard birdsong, gone to a high school dance; none of it. Derek blinks his head clear and draws his eyebrows together. "Is it harmful for you to be out this long?"  
  
Stiles grins at him. "I have no idea! Isn't that exciting? Real life science, right here."  
  
"Yeah, okay, Copernicus," Derek says, standing. This is the longest Stiles has been out of water. Jesus. "Let's save the experiments for another day and make sure you don't die."  
  
"Oh, calm your egg pouch, I'm fine," Stiles reassures him. Funnily enough, Derek's more distressed than ever. Egg pouch? Dare he even ask? "I suppose I can unbeach myself." The process that follows is quite possibly the most undignified thing Derek has ever seen. He's torn between laughing his ass off, wincing and looking the other way, or ending everyone's misery by hefting the merman up and carrying him. After Stiles' massive tail flicks a load of sand all the way up to Derek's chest, he chooses the latter.  
  
"Hey!" Stiles squawks when Derek lifts him up. "Hey, unhand me, you, you _rapscallion_!"  
  
Derek snorts even as Stiles' spinal ridges dig into the flesh of his bicep. "I'm a what, now?"  
  
"You heard me!" Stiles bats at Derek's hands and chest. "Let me go!" Derek's knee-deep in the water at that point, so he does just that: he drops Stiles into the shallows. Stiles splutters and thrashes and makes all sorts of calamity, and it reminds Derek startlingly of a video Erica showed him once of a cat accidentally falling into the bath. "Rude!" Stiles shrieks once he rights himself. "And after you guilt-tripped me for grabbing your ankle, too!"  
  
" _I_ was minding my own business," Derek says down to him. " _You_ were demanding for your release, which I granted."  
  
"Oh, wow, you have such a moral high ground," Stiles snipes, but he relaxes back into the water. His skin brightens, and only then does Derek realize that it had grown dull, too. He checks his watch and makes note that it's been about half an hour since Stiles first beached himself, for future reference.  
  
"Huh," Stiles says, staring down at Derek's feet, visible through the clear water. "Your, um, down-arms are just like your normal arms."  
  
"You mean my legs?" Derek supplies, staring down at where Stiles is rubbing the palm of his hand over Derek's leg hair. "Those are my legs."  
  
"And these?"  
  
"My feet."  
  
"And these?"  
  
"Those are toes."  
  
"And they have nails."  
  
"Just like my hands, yeah."  
  
" _Weird_."  
  
Derek huffs a laugh. "Says the guy with a tail."  
  
"Yeah, says the guy with the tail!" Stiles retorts. "Look at how pretty this thing is." He slaps his tail and scrubs at the gleaming scales. "Mine isn't even the showiest in our tribe. Now look at you. Two stumpy arms pointing downward, same color as your top half and everything. Ugly as sin. And these toe things, do they even do anything? Like hands?"  
  
Derek frowns down at his toes, which currently seem wholly inadequate. "I think they help with balance."  
  
"Balance," Stiles echoes disbelievingly. "They keep you from falling over. Well, slap me with a flounder and call me impressed."  
  
"They serve their purpose." Derek shrugs, feeling, for the first time in a long time, self-conscious. It's actually kind of nice. "That all I really need."  
  
"Well, you're lucky the rest of you is pretty," Stiles sighs. He splashes water on his chest. "So, we've got another few hours till sunrise, tell me about being a surface-dweller."  
  
Derek shifts his balance and tries to ignore the fact that Stiles just called him pretty. He sits in the shallow water. "You just asked me to describe the world. Be more specific."  
  
"Give me something I can at least a little bit understand," Stiles says, frowning. "No more of this movies nonsense. Oh, i know! Talk food to me."  
  
"Food," Derek says, "right. That should be simple enough."  
  
Derek could eat his words, if only it didn't create such a terrible pun. He spends the next three hours telling Stiles all about food, from agriculture and grains to different cuisines to junk food to ice cream, and everything else he can think of. It is far from simple. In turn, Stiles tells Derek about the art of hunting fish and larger marine game, and how kelp is the most disgusting, yet most nutritious, food under the sea.  
  
Stiles makes Derek promise to bring him surface foods. He offers to return the favor by bringing some fish, but Derek turns him down. Werewolf healing or no, raw fish doesn't sound like a wise dietary choice. Derek doesn't even like sushi, and that stuff is, like, checked, or something.  
  
They talk until the sun rises and Stiles has to slip away, arms full of bangles and toting the mirror. Derek scoops up the leftovers and heads home, feeling tired and satisfied.  
  
Stiles is unlike anyone Derek's ever met, which, granted, he's a merman and hasn't experienced human culture, but still. It's incredible. Stiles is young, eager, and curious, and Derek thrills in answering his questions. He's so unlike jaded, disinterested humans that it's disorienting. Stiles is _new_. It wakens something in Derek that's been dormant for a long time, something just as inquisitive.  
  
For the first time in nearly a decade, Derek Hale feels hopeful.  
  
He wants to go home and head straight for bed. Maybe his dreams will have something other that the fire to focus on, for a change. To his dismay, his three roommates corner him as soon as he gets home. "What are you guys doing up?"  
  
"The same could be said of you," Boyd says neutrally. "Erica says this is the second time you've stayed out this late, and apparently some of her stuff is missing?"  
  
"My jewelry, you fiend," Erica hisses to Derek. "Where is it?"  
  
Derek guiltily fumbles through the bag and withdraws a fistful of necklaces. "I owe you some bangles."  
  
" _Why_?"  
  
"We don't do secrets, Derek," Isaac tells him, pulling out the puppy dog eyes, the bastard. "Your rule, remember?"  
  
"I made that rule so you guys wouldn't sneak out to do drugs, or worse yet, show off your werewolf skills."  
  
"So you're above the household rules, then?" Erica asks, eyes glittering dangerously.  
  
"No!" Derek cries. "No, I'm sorry. That came out wrong. It's just… I met someone, it's still very new, and we can only hang out at night because he's not technically supposed to be sneaking out to see me." Which is, thankfully, all true.  
  
"Sneaking out? How old is this someone?" Boyd raises an unimpressed eyebrow.  
  
Derek swallows. "I never asked, actually." The realization makes him flush hot with shame.  
  
"Ugh, gross!" Erica slaps his shoulder. "Are you fucking kidding?"  
  
"It's not like that," Derek protests. "It's not romantic, or anything. He's just lonely, I think. There's no legal reason for me to be cautious." Especially because Derek highly, highly doubted the Constitution had much room for interspecies affairs between a merman and a werewolf. Or, well, maybe you never knew with that Thomas Jefferson. Derek couldn't say.  
  
"The very idea that you have to use the word 'legal' in that sentence nauseates me." Erica flips her hair over her shoulder, disgusted.  
  
"So you're out, spending every night with some kid, and there's no strings attached," Isaac drawls. "Come on, Derek, we aren't stupid."  
  
"Apparently you are, if you aren't using your senses," Derek snarls, fatigue making him cranky. "Listen to my heartbeat. Smell for signs of adrenaline. Am I lying? No. It's not an every night situation, and there's nothing romantic happening. So back the fuck up and let me sleep."  
  
All three betas let their eyes glow yellow, and Derek tenses his muscles for a fight. Instead they shift aside to let him pass. Derek relaxes his tense muscles in relief and heads for the stairs. "In the future?" Erica calls out. "Let us know ahead of time if you're going to be out all hours of the night. We won't worry so much."  
  
"You three, worrying about me," Derek snorts derisively, "alright, sure."  
  
"Seriously," Isaac says, eyes wide. "You're a part of this family, Derek. We worry about you, too."  
  
Derek hikes up the stairs before he can do something dumb, like gruffly pulling all of them into a hug or something equally ridiculous.  
  
  
Derek spends some time thinking about which foods he should introduce Stiles to first. He tries to think of it in terms of "If this were his last meal, the last thing he'd ever taste, what would he pick?" because that is the food Stiles should try first. So, of course Derek is completely unoriginal and picks up a pizza, half cheese and half pepperoni, a six-pack of Coke, and two bags full of junk food. Hell, Stiles is roughly around seventeen or nineteen or something, so this food should be right up his alley.  
  
Stiles arrives wearing some sort of belt, which he shucks as soon as he hits sand. "Hi, Derek!"  
  
"Hey, Stiles," Derek greets, feeling something settle in his chest that he hadn't even noticed was jittering. "How are things?"  
  
"Pretty okay. My buddy Scott just met some mermaid from a competing tribe and thinks he's in love," Stiles says, rolling his eyes. "She's all he talks about. It's all 'Allison found a blue sea cucumber that she thinks bring out my eyes,' and 'Oh, I hope Allison likes squid ink!' What kind of mermaid turns down squid ink, huh? Tell me."  
  
"Oh, only the dumbest mermaids," Derek says, nodding knowledgeably. Stiles sticks out his tongue, which, huh, is black. Derek turns to his packages of food and reminds himself of how firmly he'd told his friends there was nothing romantic involved, and he should have no interest in see what that tongue tastes like. None. At. All. "So, I brought a lot of stuff. I couldn't decide. Hopefully you like pizza."  
  
"Oh, that reminds me! I brought you something, too!" Stiles opens the pouch on his belt and withdraws a square of kelp. "So you can understand my misery."  
  
Derek dutifully eats the kelp and tries not to die at the taste. It's bitter like burnt coffee, salty like the sea, and chewy like tar. It's easily the most inedible thing Derek's ever tried, and he used to gnaw on erasers as a kid. "Thanks," he chokes out. "Really puts things in perspective."  
  
Stiles grins at him. "It's the shittiest of shitty," he agrees. "My next present is, hopefully, a little sweeter." He scoops something out of the bag and gestures for Derek to cup his palms together. He releases the objects and Derek gasps: it's over two dozen pearls. "I don't know if they're anything special up here, but in the sea we use them like money."  
  
Derek swallows around the lump of awe in his throat. "Uh yeah," he manages, "they're valuable. We put these in jewelry."  
  
"Oh, that's smart!" Stiles says. "Cause they're so shiny!"  
  
Derek laughs somewhat hysterically and rolls the pearls around, watching how they gleam in the moonlight. "Stiles, this is way too much to give me. What I brought you isn't worth nearly this much."  
  
Stiles waves him off. "My dad won't even notice. Now, show me food. Please."  
  
Right, no time like the present. Derek puts the pearls carefully into his bag, next to his tablet, and opens the box of pizza. "This is pizza, I told you about it last time."  
  
Stiles is utterly flabbergasted by the heat of the pizza, and explains to Derek that everything's the same temperature, down where merpeople hunt. He's never had hot food before. His first bite of pizza is, in Derek's mind, like a transformation of the soul. Stiles just shuts down, chewing slowly and sucking grease from his fingertips in a complete daze. "This is the best thing I've ever tasted," he says quietly.  
  
"Pizza is exceptional." Derek licks a string of cheese off the side of his hand. "Not all human food is this tasty. I thought I'd start things off with a bang."  
  
"Well, consider me banged," Stiles says solemnly. Derek chokes on a pepperoni, and Stiles confused look only makes it worse. Derek waves him off, so he continues. "I would gladly bear your children, should you choose to feed me pizza for the rest of my life."  
  
And holy shit, talk about next-level flirtation. Derek's wolf rails in him, because werewolves have a _thing_ about thinking about prospective mates and cubs. It makes Derek's teeth itch where the fangs drop out, makes him want to press all the way against Stiles and do all manner of raunchy things to him. Derek bites at the corners of his lips and reigns himself in. That's wrong on so, so many levels. Stiles can't even bear his children, probably. "Here, try Doritos."  
  
Stiles love those too, and lets himself get absolutely covered in orange dust. He guzzles the Coke and smacks his lips against the carbonation. He delights in belching, despite Derek's protests that it's considered rude to burp in public. Just for that, Stiles burps in his face and giggles for two solid minutes.  
  
They have to take breaks every once in a while so Stiles can rehydrate himself. He basks in the shallows and rubs at his flat stomach like he's never felt this full before. Maybe he hasn't. They eat through Derek's entire supply of food, even the sugary Hostess cakes, until they're both lying across the sand, half-submerged in the gentle tide, staring up at the stars.  
  
"Thanks for tonight," Stiles says, rolling his head to the side to look Derek in the eye. "This was the best night of my life."  
  
Derek catches his eyes, green boring into unearthly hazel. "Yeah," he says softly, taking in the way the moonlight makes Stiles seem nearly ethereal. "Mine, too."  
  
Stiles grabs for his hand and squeezes it. They watch the stars, hands clasped, bellies full, until the sky fades to pale blue and Stiles has to leave. Before he goes, though, he leans in and kisses Derek's cheek, smiling briefly with his gray-tan lips and his pointy teeth. He dives into a cresting wave and never comes back up.  
  
Derek spends ten minutes watching the sunrise and rubbing at the spot on his cheek where Stiles kissed him. It tingles like Stiles was wearing menthol. Derek thuds his head against the sand and breathes in the salt air, hating himself.  
  
If Isaac were to question him now, Derek wouldn't be able to say his feelings weren't romantic. And, considering the kiss, he thinks he may not be the only one. Fuck.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MAN YOU GUYS. DEREK'S PULLING OUT THE MANPAIN. SHIT'S GETTING REAL.
> 
> I need sleep. I'm sorry. Goodnight.
> 
> EDIT: Oh, one last thing! Someone asked me (or rather hinted suggestively) about future smut happening. I purposely left this option open for myself. Smut can happen, or it can not happen. If anyone's interesting in casting a vote, I'd be more than happy to listen.


	4. Anenome Weeding Duty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short and kind of filler-y. If I can, I'll post the next chapter (which is neither short nor without plotty significance) tomorrow.
> 
> I should let you know that I've come to a decision about the smut. This story won't have any, but I'm writing a sequel that will definitely include some hot-hot action. It was the only logical way I could give you guys enough plot and character development to justify frickle frackle. 
> 
> Un-beta'd.

His roommates ask him repeatedly about Stiles, which is both annoying and amazing in equal measure. It's annoying because Derek isn't allowed to forget, even for a day, how Stiles liked sucking orange grease off his fingers with complete focus, or the easy way Stiles ribbed Derek just hard enough to make it interesting. And that kiss, God. Derek's never been so strung up on a kiss to the cheek before. It's crazy.  
  
But, for all that he likes to complain about his busybody friends and their probing questions, he's so fucking grateful that he even has people to needle him. It still stuns Derek that he managed to find a family after losing his own, after everything that happened with Kate and his real family. It was all his fault. He doesn't deserve a second chance— not after the way he ruined the first one— but he's too weak to turn his roommates away, and he's too selfish to ask them why they stick around. He recognizes it for the gift horse it is, and he knows better than to look in its mouth.  
  
He forgot to ask Stiles about his age, so Erica has taken to calling him Heff for "being such a cradle-robber, you weirdo." Usually he snaps his fangs at her and they play-fight until someone gets too many broken bones to continue. It reminds him of goofing off with his brothers and sisters when he was a kid. If Derek antagonizes her a little just to feel a surge of familial love and contentment, well, who's gonna call him out on it?   
  
Laura makes her biweekly call from New York and Derek spends two hours awash in old, familiar guilt. It fits him like a well-worn sweater, by now. Something about meeting Stiles has ripped open all his old wounds, so now the pain that slowly dulled to an ache is wide and raw again. This time around, though, he has a support system that makes the wound smaller, like the ending bits have fully scarred over to shiny white tissue. It's quiet now, a reminder that he lost so much, but could have lost _more_. He didn't lose everything. Sometimes Derek thinks that's the only thing keeping him sane.  
  
He tells her, in vague terms, about Stiles. Not that he's a merman, of course, but that Derek's met someone who is funny and fiery and new like the downy fur on a wolf pup. It's difficult to avoid spilling the beans because she's his sister, and he trusts her implicitly, but every time he thinks about even mentioning the word 'merman,' he hears Stiles' voice saying "put-to-death illegal" and he catches himself. Derek trusts Laura, but Stiles trusts _him_. This secret isn't his to tell.  
  
She, in turn, tells him about some guy named Rich she met in her pottery class. He's a doctor from somewhere out west, she says, who moved to New York to help his younger sister through college and takes pottery in his free time. He sounds to good to be true, to Derek, and Laura laughs when he tells her so. "Says the lifeguard living with three young betas and paying the lion's share of the rent because he wants them to save up for college. Uh huh, sure."  
  
"It's not a big deal," Derek grumbles half-heartedly. "I have the money anyway, might as well use it for something good."  
  
"You're my favorite brother," Laura says fondly.   
  
_I'm your only brother_ , Derek thinks, forgetting, for one cruel moment, that they lost two brothers and a sister in the fire. The moment passes and he feels like rubbing wolfsbane into his eyes. "Yeah, yeah," he growls brokenly, "love you too."  
  
If Laura notices the change in his voice, she doesn't mention it. They spend another ten minutes shooting the shit until she has to go to work. It effectively scabs the bleeding wound in Derek's chest, at least until her next call.   
  
He has the next few days off from lifeguard duty, so he spends his time restocking the kitchen and reorganizing his closet. It's busy work, and boring busy work at that, but every time he sits still he thinks of Stiles' wide, happy smile and the cold press of lips against his cheek, and it's too much.   
  
The next time he meets Stiles he brings two bags of Mexican takeout and a box of donuts from the local bakery. It's worth it just to see Stiles get guacamole all over himself in his delight. "Keep feeding me like this and I'll get more blubbery than a walrus," he jokes around a mouthful of taco. "How are humans not massive?"  
  
"Some are," Derek says, chewing on his burrito. It's "But we have this food all the time, remember, so we're used to it."  
  
"So what you're saying is you're spoiling me for normal food," Stiles teases. "I'm going to become one of those fat dolphins that hangs around the piers to get bites of human food. I see what you're doing." He shoves the rest of the taco into his mouth.  
  
Derek smirks and throws his hands up. "You've caught me."  
  
"Yes I have," Stiles says, beaming. "And I don't plan on letting you go, either."  
  
Something in Derek's chest wriggles, thrilled. "So, Stiles," Derek says, going for casual and missing by a mile, "how old are you, exactly?"  
  
"Forty-seven," Stiles chirps. "How old are you?"  
  
Derek's entire body just stops. "I'm sorry, how old?"  
  
Stiles falters over his donut. "Uh, forty-seven?"  
  
"Years," Derek checks. "You're forty-seven years old. You."  
  
"Hey, listen, I know I'm still a little young," Stiles defends, crossing his arms, "but, I mean, fifty isn't so far away. There's no need to chomp my gills about it."  
  
"No, Stiles." Derek laughs, feeling light-headed. "Stiles, I'm twenty-six."  
  
"Oh yeah, sure you are," Stiles snorts, "and I'm a clownfish."  
  
"How long do merpeople live?"  
  
"On average? Two hundred years, give or take. Chairperson Deaton says he's two-forty, but he also says there are mers in the deep Pacific with glowing tails." He says this like it's the dumbest thing he's ever heard, but Derek wouldn't be surprised if it's true. Hell, Stiles could tell him there are merpeople on the moon and he'd believe him at this point.  
  
"Jesus Christ," he murmurs. "Well, Isaac won't be on my ass anymore. Forty-seven years old."  
  
"So wait," Stiles says, "are you really twenty-six? You look at least sixty!"  
  
"For the first time in my life, I'll take that as a compliment." Derek wipes his hands on a napkin. "We live on average eighty years. I'd have wrinkles if I was sixty."  
  
"Wow," Stiles says. "That's... wow." He fiddles with the bangles on his wrists. The gold lacquer is beginning to chip off from constantly being underwater, and Derek makes a note to buy him some new ones. "Hey, not to put a crimp in this conversation, but can we relocate? I'm itchy."  
  
Derek follows him into the surf and spreads out over the soft sand. Stiles nudges over until he's lying next to Derek, so Derek can feel the brush of fin against his toes every so often.  It's so pleasant Derek thinks he could sleep right there.  
  
The next thing he knows, he's getting poked in the side by something slippery. He opens his eyes with a start. "Whaa?"  
  
"Hey, sleepyhead." Stiles' chin is propped on his arms, resting on the flat of Derek's sternum. "It's almost sunrise. I should go."  
  
So he actually did sleep right there. How embarrassing. "Sorry," Derek says groggily. "Shit, I dunno what happened."  
  
"You were comfortable." Stiles shrugs and smiles. "I'm glad you could feel that comfortable around me, honestly. It's nice." He fingers the ring around Derek's neck, pressing the titanium against the edge of his webs. "I didn't want to wake you, but I figured disappearing on you would be rude."  
  
"No, yeah, it's fine," Derek says, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb along the skin of Stiles' elbow. "Thanks. When do you want to meet next?"  
  
"Every night?" Stiles asks lightly. He shakes his head a little. "Kidding. I have patrol duty a lot this week because some dumb hammerhead's been stealing into our caves to sleep, so our guard's doubled until he leaves. Eight days from now, maybe? That's the earliest I can promise."  
  
Derek sucks in a breath. Eight days is a long time, especially considering they've only been meeting for two weeks. Derek wants to bargain with Stiles down to something sooner, but he stops himself. God, has he really become this dependent already? Derek bites his cheek until it bleeds because no, he hasn't, and Stiles has obligations to fulfill. "Okay. That's fine. Of course, Stiles, do what you need to do."  
  
Stiles hums and lays his cheek flat on his hand so his face is turned toward Derek. “I don't want to be gone that long, either. I dunno, I'll try to sneak out, if I can. Jackson owes me a patrol, but he'll probably never pay up, the finsucker.” He sighs and washes his face with a handful of seawater. “I'll try.”  
  
“Finsucker, huh?” Derek asks, grinning despite himself. “You must really dislike the guy.”  
  
Stiles rolls his eyes. “You kidding? He sneaks off during _his_ patrol to hook up with his mate— who, by the way, is about a million leagues too good for him— then blames me when a barracuda sneaks in and steals half our fish supply. I was on the other side of the village! So I get three weeks of anemone weeding duty, which, in case you didn't know, stings like a bitch, while he gets to lay back and eat whale fat like the finsucker he is.”  
  
Derek hums thoughtfully. “We call them assholes.”  
  
“What’s an asshole?” Stiles asks. When Derek tells him, he laughs until he's out of breath. “Oh, that's great. I am so using that.”  
  
“Wouldn't that seem suspicious, you using a human term like that?”  
  
“Nah.” Stiles scratches at his nose. “If anyone asks, I'll say I met a migrator on their way to the reef down south, and they shared it with me. Happens all the time. And oh, the look on Jackson's face when I become the cool kid with all the new slang will be priceless.”  
  
“Well,” Derek says, smiling, “in that case, there's a few more words you should probably know.”  
  
Stiles' eyes brighten, and in the pale light of the rising sun he's beautiful. “Do tell.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did any of you catch the Community reference? Yes? Yes? That show's cancellation wrecked me.


	5. Movie Night(s)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Lots of notes today.
> 
> So, the age thing really got to a few people. Let me clarify here: yes, merfolk age differently. Yes, Stiles could well outlive Derek, and possibly Derek's children. No, that does not make a happy ending impossible. I have a plan, I promise, and it's (I think) a good one. Patience, my young padawans.
> 
> [PrettyWilde](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyWilde/pseuds/PrettyWilde) sent me [this incredible fanart by jannelle-o](http://jannelle-o.tumblr.com/post/81017896215/i-wanted-to-color-something-haha-w#notes), and I love it a lot and I'm sharing it with you. This isn't really how I picture Stiles (my version is a little more like the merfolk in Harry Potter, but not quite that scary/ugly/inhuman), but I think it's a gorgeous representation of how a merperson SHOULD look, and _dat interpersonal dynamic doe_. So, you know, check it out. 
> 
> Un-beta'd BUT [Ilovesocks_24](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilovesocks_24/pseuds/Ilovesocks_24) generously offered to take up the job! That's awesome, right? So, to keep things fluid I'll keep posting chapters on my schedule, but keep in mind that that schedule may change once this bad boy starts getting some sweet beta lovin'. If that does happen, I promise to let you know in advance.

Over the course of the next few weeks Derek and Stiles do nothing but grow closer and closer. Stiles gets Derek to shift and spends almost half an hour examining Derek's fangs and claws. In return, he makes Derek slide on a pair of goggles and grab his waterproof flashlight so he can see how Stiles' gills slide open as soon as he submerges into the water. Derek would never say this out loud, but watching Stiles swim around is one of the most breathtaking things he's ever seen.  
  
Stiles on land is awkward and floppy, obviously unused to the effects of gravity despite his endless supply of energy. It's endearingly pathetic and pathetically endearing at the same time. Derek isn't sure why, but he sort of expected that from Stiles in the water, too. He could smack himself. Stiles is a man transformed underwater. All disjointed angles on land, here he is one streamlined curve of muscle, powerful and sleek. It's clear, now, that merpeople are predatory creatures, the way Stiles can lunge and twist. As much as Derek hates himself for thinking this, it's damned sexy.  
  
Sexy or not, Derek doesn't make a move on Stiles, though his wolf whines within him every time they're together. There's something precious about Stiles, a naiveté borne of living outside the human world all his life, that Derek is terrified to touch. Derek's a man made of ashes and broken charcoal, and he's positive he'll leave nothing behind but a handprint of soot on Stiles' soul. Stiles deserves someone clean, someone untouched by tragedy and black despair.  
  
Stiles, to his credit, doesn't push it. He's a tactile person, and Derek isn't sure if that's a common trait among merpeople or if it's something uniquely him, but he doesn't kiss Derek again. Derek refuses to acknowledge his disappointment about it.  
  
It becomes a nonissue once Derek starts bringing his laptop to the beach. The way Derek sees it, the only way to properly show Stiles the diversity and depth of human culture is to show him movies. Stiles, because he's a stubborn asshole, demands to see all of them, even after Derek tries to explain that such a feat would take multiple lifetimes. They compromise, finally, on the classics, from Casablanca to the latest Marvel flick. Stiles falls in love with John Hughes movies and superheroes, but nothing compares to his love for the Pirates of the Caribbean saga. He's absolutely transfixed by them. The first time through (yes, they've watched them more than once, much to Derek's chagrin) he spent the entire night in rapt silence, rustling around in the water as little as possible so he could catch every word. Every time Calypso came on screen, he would suck in a breath between his teeth, which made Derek wonder if merpeople had a religion, and if that religion includeed someone like the feisty goddess.  
  
The Kraken terrifies him so much he hides in Derek's shoulder and won't come back out until the scene is over. It's so fucking adorable Derek can't even pretend to be upset over it.  
  
The second time through, Stiles provides a running commentary about mer-society back in the days on pirates. Derek is shocked to learn that merpeople often live in abandoned ships and, once upon a time, knew pirates quite well. Pirates respected the creatures of the sea in a way that normal sailors didn't and traded with merpeople for pearls and hard-to-catch fish. Underwater civilization flourished with surface-dweller materials like leather and cloth, and led to the advent of kelp tanning.  
  
Unfortunately, pirates weren't always known for their discretion, and soon the sea was crawling with sailors and trading company representatives who wanted, ostensibly, to form an alliance with the people of the sea. After a few merpeople had gone missing, however, tribe leaders began to realize that the sailors and companies were taking advantage of their hospitality, and fell into seclusion. Strict laws were written, and now merpeople are nothing more than a silly story to humans.  
  
“What about the Kraken?” Derek asks, because he just has to know.  
  
“That,” Stiles says emphatically, “is an abomination and a nightmare. No. Just no.”  
  
  
It takes Derek a long time to muster up the courage to show Stiles The Little Mermaid. It's always been his favorite Disney movie, ever since he was a tiny young pup with milkteeth, and he couldn't bear it if Stiles ripped it apart. Or, worse yet, if Stiles somehow found the cartoon offensive. Derek isn't one for total political correctness, really, but he would hate to find out that something he loves is speciesist, or whatever the term may be. He's seen enough embarrassing werewolf dramas to know how shitty those misconceptions can feel.  
  
To Derek's relief, Stiles laughs through most of the beginning because it's so ridiculous (“A flounder and a lobster? What is she, a charity case? What losers.”) and spends the first half of it enchanted by what he calls "humans, shockingly, getting it kind of right." Over the course of the second half, however, he grows quieter and quieter and the line between his eyebrows grows deeper and deeper.  
  
When the movie's over, he sits up and looks at Derek with an unreadable expression. “I'm not sure how I felt about that.”  
  
Something drops in Derek. “Oh.”  
  
Stiles grimaces, like he's not sure how to phrase what he wants to say. “Is it custom in your culture to give up identity for love?”  
  
That's not a question Derek expected at all. “What?”  
  
“Ariel." Stiles thumbs at the line where his red scales bleed to gold. "She gives up everything just to be with some guy she barely even knows. Like, she can't even communicate with him, she isolates herself from her family and friends, and she basically swears her soul to a purple octopus to do it. All on the off-chance he'll be shallow enough to fall for a girl he can't even speak to? Is that a message humans like to perpetuate?"  
  
"I— I never thought of it that way."  
  
Stiles nods to himself, lips curled derisively. "Right, because humans are superior to all other life, so why would it even be a problem? Figures."  
  
Derek growls and crosses his arms. "That's not fair, Stiles," he snaps. "Humans don't know there's other sentient species out there. They used an interspecies romance to make a statement about how far people are willing to go to love each other."  
  
"Are you seriously defending this?" Stiles scoffs. "She gave up her autonomy for this finsucker and you're defending it! And this is a children's movie, right? So not only are you saying that people should support self-erasure, but that they should teach it to their children, too? You want people to grow up thinking it's okay to sacrifice everything on the slim chance it'll magically be enough to win someone over? What kind of message does that send about self-worth and independence, Derek?"  
  
"It's not like that," Derek argues, because he's seen a story where someone sacrifices it all for love, he's _lived it_ , and this is not that kind of story. "Movies always capitalize on the idea that love is the most powerful motivator out there, even if it isn't true. It makes people feel like there's more out there than just surviving. Like maybe the greatest contribution we can make to the universe isn't just existing, but really putting ourselves out there for someone else. Besides, Ariel was in love with human culture _before_ she met Eric! You can't say that her decision to become human hinged exclusively on love!"  
  
"Yeah? I love human culture, too," Stiles hisses, "but you don't see _me_ shucking off my fins to run off with _you_ , now, do you?"  
  
Derek inhales, and all the fight leaves him at once. "I, you— what?"  
  
Stiles heaves a sigh that deflates his entire torso. "Never mind, Derek. I'll see you later." He pushes into the water and disappears beneath the waves, leaving nothing but an indent in the sand behind him.  
  
Derek watches the waves with wide eyes until they start to water. He never expected Stiles to take this movie so personally. And what did he mean, "to run off with you?" He wasn't suggesting that Derek wanted him to be Ariel, did he?  
  
Derek falls back to the sand in shock. If Stiles is comparing himself to Ariel, that means his feelings for Derek are very clearly romantic, in a heavy way, and that's… that's complicated. There's a chunk of Derek that's absolutely elated to get some validation, because he's been feeling something sweet and hot thrumming under his skin for weeks now, and it does things to him to know that feeling is returned. After Kate and the disaster she caused, Derek was positive he'd never put his heart out there again, and it was one of the more painful parts of his recovery. Derek loved being in love with her, even if it was young and superficial. He'd reveled in the way his body reacted to her, the way her presence could make his entire world light up. He felt complete loving her, like nothing could touch him.  
  
He was brutally, horribly wrong, and his love cost him his family. His heart was burned with his mother, his father, his siblings, and everything else he cared about, and he was sure it would never heal over. He thought it was better that way, like he was scorched and tempered and hardened, and nothing would break through his barriers again. Nothing would break _him_ again.  
  
Maybe that's why he likes The Little Mermaid so much. Ariel flirts with humanity and falls for it, gives herself over to a human entirely, and Prince Eric, instead of flinching away from her inhumanity, embraces it. They fit together like puzzle pieces. Derek isn't sure if he belongs to a puzzle, or if he's just a corner of a picture that's been destroyed. Perhaps there are no knobs out there that fit into his grooves.  
  
But Stiles, though, feels like he might just be able to click into place in Derek's life. He's so young and hopeful and alive, and Derek desperately wants all that potential to himself. It's a selfish need that aches inside of him, an insistent tapping at his hardened heart that makes his walls feel like doors. He wants to let Stiles inside, consequences be damned.  
  
Derek doesn't like the idea of sullying Stiles by comparing him to Kate, but he can't help but think that they're as opposite as people can get. Kate riddled him with sugary pet names and manipulative affection, and in hindsight it was all so fake. Stiles is like drinking rainwater straight from a cloud, pure and unassuming. He may have a mischievous streak, but Stiles couldn't insidiously manipulate Derek even if he wanted to. There's a comfort in that, in knowing that he isn't falling into an old trap.  
  
But the other side of the Stiles Equation is that it simply can't happen. He can't be with Stiles, no matter how much he wishes he could. Stiles is a merman and Derek is a werewolf, and those variables don't add up. They could never live together, share a bed, go on real dates, none of it. They can't have a life together. And Derek's all but accepted a life alone, but that doesn't mean Stiles has to. He could still meet a young, beautiful merperson and fall madly in love and have leagues and leagues of golden-eyed, smiling babies. He deserves that, and Derek's toxic, carbon-black brand of love has no place stealing that from him.  
  
A heavy, steely resolve settles over Derek, sinking into his bones and gluing him to the sand. He only moves when the sun is angled in the sky high enough that it blinds him. Derek packs up his laptop and trudges home, showers and crumples into bed. This is the way it has to be.  
  
 _This is better_ , he tells himself as he struggles to fall asleep. _This is healthy_.  
  
His heartbeat skips: it's a lie.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I'm sorry please don't hate me. Angst is important.


	6. It's Been All for You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle your seatbelts, guys.
> 
> This chapters is *drumroll* BETA'D by Ilovesocks_24! Three cheers for that, am I right??

** **Two months later** **  
  
Derek sits up just as his alarm goes off. "6:30," it reads.  
  
He showers, brushes his teeth, and slides into his red swim trunks.  
  
He has a green smoothie for breakfast. No amount of blueberries and banana can hide the taste of spinach.  
  
He works his morning shift at the beach. He traded shifts with Boyd to no longer works nights; staring into the blackened sea reminds him too much of Stiles. After, he drives down to the local soup kitchen, where he volunteers every other day. The other days he volunteers at an animal shelter.  
  
He arrives home at eight, eats with his pack, smiles and laughs and teases. He helps with the dishes.  
  
He reads for an hour, then goes to bed. He stares at the lone red scale in the glass jar he keeps on his nightstand until he can't stand it anymore. He's asleep by eleven.  
  
Wash, rinse, repeat.

* * *

Derek races through the forest, moon round and heavy in the sky. His skin itches with the need to shift, and he leaps, hitting the ground on all fours. He slashes into tree trunks and rocks until his hands and feet are bleeding. He reaches a clearing and digs his claws into the soft grass. He finds a tiny pond and imagines he sees a flash of red scales tilting against the light.  
  
When he howls, it's a broken, wretched, desolate noise, and it echoes around the trees like a call for help.  
  
No one answers, and Derek tears back into the safety of trees.

* * *

"There's someone here to see you," Erica calls up the stairs. Derek drops his knees from his push-up position and stands. He wipes off his face and torso with a hand towel, then puts on his shirt.  
  
He smells the visitor before he sees him. Salt, fish, bitter greens. Derek's wolf perks up and whines, but he ignores it. Probably just a fisherman, or someone else that spends all of their days on the water. Lots of people smell like the sea around here.  
  
Derek walks into the living room. "Hello."  
  
The man is surprisingly pale, considering how much time he must spend in the sun to smell that strongly of sea. Standing awkwardly in the middle of Derek's living room, the man's wearing thin, weatherworn linen clothes that look like they could be from centuries ago, or he could prefer the lightweight fabric for spending hours in the sun. They're stiff with salt and crinkle when he moves, which he does stiltedly, as if uncomfortable in his skin. His blue eyes are surrounded by fine lines that smooth as soon as Derek speaks. "So you're him."  
  
"I'm who?" Derek asks, crossing his arms. Something about this man is setting the hairs on the back of Derek's neck on edge. "Who are you?"  
  
The man smiles, and it's a sad, empty thing. "You're the upwalker that got a hook in my son's heart. My name is John. I'm Stiles' father."  
  
The still air thunders in Derek's ears and his insides tear open like a line of delicate stitches. All the hours he spent determinedly focusing on things that weren't Stiles wither away to nothing. He feels just as he did when he lay on the beach, all those weeks ago. Derek slumps into a nearby chair and gestures vaguely for the visitor, _Stiles' father_ , to do the same.  
  
"Wait, how is this even possible?" Derek shakes his head. "How do you, uh, have legs? How did you find me? _Why_ did you find me?"  
  
John waves him off. "There's time for all that later. Have you seen Stiles lately?"  
  
And as quickly as it clouded, Derek's mind clears. "No, why? What's going on?"  
  
John sighs and runs a hand through his light hair. "Hell, kid, you're asking me? I'm not even sure where to start. When's the last time you saw my son?"  
  
Retrieving those memories feels like scraping sandpaper along the ragged edges of Derek's torn seams. "Uh, about two and a half months ago, sir."  
  
John's face twists like he's had a horrible realization. "That explains so much," he murmurs to himself. "What's your name, son?"  
  
"Derek. Derek Hale."  
  
"Alright, Derek, I'm only gonna ask this once, so I want you to think long and hard about my answer. Why did you abandon my son?"  
  
"God," Derek chokes before he can stop himself. He balls his hands into fists and feels his claws start to poke into his palms. Is that what Stiles thinks he did? Abandoned him? "I didn't, sir. I gave him up."  
  
"Is that what you think?" John asks, and for the first time, he sounds angry. "You think you could just walk away and Stiles would, what, move on? Have you _met_ him?"  
  
A strangled laugh works its way out of Derek's throat. Of course he wouldn't move on, not with his stubborn streak. Fuck, Derek misses him.  
  
"Well, since you're so _blissfully_ ignorant," John declares, "let me tell you about my son.  
  
"Stiles is a unique boy. He's smart and adventurous, and he's more trouble than he's worth, half the time. He's a starfish in a sea of cucumbers. If you're any kind of smart at all, you know that by now. We've always been close, despite my duties as tribe leader, and he only started keeping secrets from me about four months ago. I'm assuming that's when you met?"  
  
Derek swallows and nods. His throat clicks, dry.  
  
"Figured as much. Stiles doesn't have a stealthy bone in his body, so when he started sneaking away, I noticed. I tried to get him to talk to me, but he always changed the subject. It wasn't hard to figure out he'd met someone; I recognized that twinkle in his eye in a second. He looked just like his mother when we started courting."  
  
Derek tangles his hands together and avoids looking John in the eye. Stiles told Derek, in stilted, raw sentences, about his mother, about how she accidentally swam into a mass of jellyfish and died from the poison. It happened years ago, according to Stiles, but every year on the anniversary of her death he and his father bury a pearl in the sand under the spot where the jellyfish attacked her. He said it's their way of mourning the dead. Derek wants to take his entire fistful of pearls back to Beacon Hills and hide them under the burnt shell of his home, one day. He wishes Stiles could join him.  
  
"So I had him followed," John says, drawing Derek out of his reverie.  
  
"You had him what?" Derek asks, angry and scared on Stiles' behalf. _Put-to-death illegal_. "How do you have that right?"  
  
"I am his father," John says, voice like steel, "and I am the leader of our tribe. It is my responsibility to look after all of my subjects, especially when they disappear for hours on end. I don't know how much you know of our history, but the seclusion of merfolk is the only thing that's kept us alive."  
  
Derek clears his throat, feeling thoroughly chastened. John has the same commanding presence as Derek's mother used to have, which makes his wolf fold its ears back and expose its belly in supplication. "Stiles told me about it."  
  
"Did he tell you that there was a survivor, once? She escaped after three days aboard something called a 'science vessel.' Said they cut her mate from chest to fin, laid him open and poked through his innards. He was still alive when they made the cut. Did Stiles tell you that, too?"  
  
Bile rises in Derek's throat and he swallows it down. "No, sir."  
  
"When I found out he was having some sort of love affair with an upwalker, I was livid. It's against our laws, I'm sure you know. I made my patrol keep it secret and cornered Stiles. The kid's slippery like an eel, though; made up some story about how you weren't human, so it didn't count. Nightstalkers are a myth, everyone knows that, but he insisted." John passes a hand over his face, looking tired. "Without incontrovertible proof, I couldn't put my son to death. I was weak. I let him go."  
  
"For what it's worth," Derek says, clearing his throat, "he's right. I'm a werewolf."  
  
John's eyes him warily. "Are you, now?" he asks. Derek pushes his fangs and claws to lengthen and cracks his neck against the ache of the change. John sits back, agape. "Would you look at that. Are the legends true? Do you transform into beasts under the full moon? Are you truly indestructible? They say your skin is tough like tortoise shells."  
  
John blinks, and for a brief moment he looks just like Stiles when he's curious. Derek retracts his fangs to give himself a second to respond. "No to the first question, although our inner wolves are closer to the surface," Derek says. "We do have leaders called alphas, and they can transform into large wolves, if they so choose. We use mental ties to our human lives to keep us grounded when we feel out of control. Um, I'm not indestructible, but I can do this." He tears into his forearm with a single claw and feels the slick of muscles separating. John gasps when the flesh knits right back together again.  
  
"That's mighty useful," he comments, "especially for spearing down large prey. I gotta say, a couple months ago, I'd be beside myself with curiosity. But, well..." he sighs, "maybe it's best if I continue.  
  
"Two and a half months ago, Stiles went quiet, and if you know two things about him, you know quiet's not high on his list of qualities. He grew distant and disappeared almost every night. He was looking for you, Derek. He went to the surface every night to find you."  
  
Derek wishes he could slink away into the forest and disappear forever. "I switched shifts so I wouldn't work nights. I thought it would make it easier for him to move on if he thought I was gone. God, I'm such an idiot."  
  
"No arguments here," John snorts harshly. "But that's in the past now. Last night, he left for the surface and never came back. He's always back before the sun fully rises. I sent patrols out in wide sweeps and came to find you, see if you knew anything."  
  
"I have to ask again," Derek says, "how did you find me?"  
  
John laughs and it's ugly. "Derek, you may be the first werewolf my people have seen in generations, but you're hardly the only land fae in the world. Merfolk have their resources, should the need be dire enough to use them."  
  
A dire need? Finally, John's words register and Derek feels icy panic clench in his chest. "Stiles is missing?"  
  
John's face collapses. "Yes," he whispers gruffly. "And when a merman disappears like that, there's only one place they went."  
  
"He was caught," Derek breathes, horrified. "He got caught, didn't he?" If they realized what he was, he wouldn't live to see the end of the week.  
  
"That's what we believe," John says hollowly. "I don't know what they'll do, but I doubt it'll be good. Best case scenario, it's a fishing boat and they haven't discovered him yet. Worst case, he's already gone." John hangs his head between his shoulders and scrubs his hands over his hair.  
  
"Wait." An idea springs into Derek's mind. It's a long shot, but it might be their only option. "Boats that fish this close to shore have to file paperwork with city authorities, because they're liable for damages done to resort property. If a boat picked up Stiles on his trip to the beach, it might be registered. We can track it."  
  
John leans forward, and the lines around his eyes lighten. "You might find him?"  
  
Derek takes a deep breath. "I might."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Does Derek survive? Does Stiles? WHO KNOWS?? (It's me.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys still have your seatbelts on, right? This ride ain't over quite yet.
> 
> I wanted to respond to everyone's comments, as I often do, but so many of you asked for spoilers! So I figured I'd just wait and post the chapter, instead.
> 
> Beta'd by Ilovesocks_24.

"Please," Derek grits, "those files are public record."  
  
"With the right paperwork, maybe," the receptionist says apologetically. Derek scowls up at the sign reading _California Department of Fish and Wildlife._ He inwardly rolls his eyes and plasters on a flirtatious smile.  
  
"I'm just looking for one little boat," he replies, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the counter. He flexes his biceps and watches, disgustedly, as her eyes fixate on his arms. "I'd be very, very grateful for anything you can provide." He looks at her nametag. "Jeannine."  
  
Jeannine licks her lips. "Grateful?"  
  
Derek leans even closer. "Very," he purrs, forcing his eyes over her unflattering blue dress.  
  
"I'll, um, see what I can do," she falters, blushing. She clicks away on her computer for a few seconds. "Right, okay, three boats received permission to pass through Hawthorne Resort's waters."  
  
"It's a fishing boat, I think," Derek says, biting at his lip coyly. God, he hates doing this shit. But with Stiles' life on the line, Derek would strip naked and recite the Gettysburg Address, if he had to. Thank God it hasn't quite come to that.  
  
"Okay," Jeannine says, clicking a few more times. She pulls a sticky note off a pad and scribbles something onto it. "Here," she says, offering the note. "Why'd you need this again?"  
  
Derek grabs the note. "My boyfriend forgot his medication," he lies, turning and running out of the building. "I'm grateful!"  
  
The note has the ship's name, which is just a list of letters and digits, and its GPS tracking number. It has GPS. Thank god.  
  
Erica and Isaac are both home when he gets back. "So, mermaids, huh?" Erica asks.  
  
Derek stops cold. "You heard."  
  
"Hard not to," she says, "is this why we never met Loverboy?"  
  
" _You're dating a mermaid_?" Isaac asks incredulously.  
  
"Guys," Derek says hastily, "listen, I will talk to you about this later, but right now, Stiles is bycatch on a ship somewhere, and what do you think humans are going to do when they discover they have a merman on their ship?"  
  
"Fuck," Erica says succinctly. "What do you need us to do?"  
  
Derek's breath catches; maybe he'd been a usable puzzle piece, after all. He was just looking at the wrong edge. "I have a GPS code, but I have no idea how to use it."  
  
"I can help!" Isaac pipes up. "I'll call Danny, he's really good at that stuff." He pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials Danny. "Hey babe."  
  
Derek offers him the sticky note and Isaac takes it, wandering into the living room. "I know, I miss you too," he says. "Hey, I have a question. Say you have a GPS tracking code…."  
  
"They grow up so fast," Erica says affectionately, watching Isaac walk away. "So, okay, anything I can do?"  
  
Derek takes a deep breath and relaxes for the first time in nearly two hours. "I can't think of anything. Now we wait."  
  
"Well, in that case, here." Erica punches him in the arm hard. "That's for keeping something this monumental a secret. Did you honestly not trust us?"  
  
Derek grimaces. That actually hurt a little. "I suppose I deserved that. Stiles made me promise, Erica. You have to understand, last time merfolk encountered humans, their entire existence was threatened. They have no defense against human technology, not like we do. They're completely vulnerable. So of course I trust you, but the secret wasn't mine to tell. Not until now, anyway."  
  
Erica sighs and ruffles his hair. "You're a good guy, Derek. You're an asshole at the best of times and a holy terror in the morning, but you're a good guy. So all this moping around and trading shifts and drinking veggie smoothies, this was all about Stiles, huh?"  
  
Derek stumbles to the nearest chair and sits. "The last time I saw him, we fought," he confesses quietly. "I really hurt him, I think."  
  
Erica sits down next to him. "What happened?"  
  
Derek laughs bitterly. "It's so stupid, now. We were watching The Little Mermaid because I thought he'd like it."  
  
"God, that's, like, the king of all cultural appropriation faux pas, isn't it?"  
  
"Yeah, a little, but that wasn't the bad part. Stiles had a problem with the fact that Ariel gave up on her life underwater for the prince. I didn't see the parallels, so I argued with him about it. I never thought that he might see himself as Ariel, or that he thought I would expect him to give anything up for me. Hell, we never talked about being in a relationship. I had no idea he even thought of me that way. Do you know what he told me? 'You don't see me shucking off my fins to run off with you, now, do you?' Jesus."  
  
"Dude," Erica commiserates, "low blow. I'm sorry."  
  
Derek barely hears her. He's caught up in the memory of watching Stiles disappear beneath the waves for, fuck, what might be the last time. "He swam off before I had a chance to apologize, and I thought that was it for us. I was sure I'd hurt him just like I hurt everything in my life, so I kept away. I figured that I should just let him find someone of his own kind. Be happy, you know? But no, I fucked that up, too, and Stiles is trapped by humans, somewhere. He may already be dead. God, he may already be dead.”  
  
Erica opens her mouth to say something but Derek barely notices. He's spent two months letting this stuff bottle up inside him, and now it's just all rushing out of him at once.  
  
"Do you know the original story of The Little Mermaid? It was written as a ballet. Ariel doesn't lose her voice, but every step she takes causes her agony. The prince falls in love with another woman, and Ariel has a choice: she can kill her prince and live, or she dies. She stands over his bedside with a knife in her hand, looks down at her prince and his wife, and can't bear to kill him. She turns into sea foam. By the time the prince wakes up, she's completely gone, evaporated.  
  
"Our story can't have a happy ending," Derek tells Erica brokenly. "Stiles and me. It just doesn't work."  
  
"By whose standards? Hollywood? Friggin' Disney?" Erica rolls her eyes. "Derek, there's no such thing as cosmic fate. And you don't hurt everything in your path, so quit that nonsense. You were lied to, tricked, and cheated, and you've spent the rest of your life trying to make up for it. How many people have you saved? How many lives have you helped?"  
  
"Erica." Derek shakes his head and scrubs a hand over his face. "It doesn't make up for—"  
  
"Fuck that," Erica snaps. "Fuck that, and fuck you for believing it. You wanna talk in 'I can't's? Fine. You _cannot_ lose the rest of your life to this grief. You _cannot_ give up on ever finding happiness. You _cannot_ blame yourself forever. _That_ is how you become a toxic person. And Stiles and you? That only doesn't work if you don't let it work. So buck the fuck up and move on. You hear me?"  
  
Derek hangs his head in defeat. "Yeah. I hear you."  
  
"Hey." Isaac slides into the kitchen, beaming. "Danny found the boat! He's sending me the map now."  
  
Derek stands and rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes. He's got a merman to save. "Right. Let's find Stiles."  
  
Derek's blood runs cold when the map finally loads. The boat is docked six miles away, near, among other things, the local aquarium and marine research center. If they took Stiles there, he'll spend the rest of his life behind glass, and that's _if_ they decide to let him live. "Fuck."  
  
"Hey, you may still have a chance," Erica says encouragingly. "You have to try."  
  
Derek stands and pulls her into a hug so tight they both hear her ribs crack. "Thank you."  
  
"Anytime," she says. She punches his arm again, softer this time. "Go get 'em, tiger."  
  
Derek lunges into his car and speeds toward the aquarium, heart thrumming in his chest. Now that he has capital-P-Plans on making him and Stiles work, awful images keep springing to mind, one after the next: Stiles lying, gray and lifeless, on the gritty deck of a ship; Stiles flayed open, organs resting in jars and bowls around an operating bench; Stiles fighting for his release with pointed teeth and tiny claws until the scientists have no choice but shoot him down with tranquilizers. Derek's foot presses down on the accelerator and prays that he gets there in time. No one else can die because of him.  
  
He peels into the aquarium parking lot and runs toward the docks, uncaring that he is going faster than humanly possible. The docks are lined with boats. Derek races down each pier, searching for a boat with 0A5THX47 on the hull. It isn't in the first pier, or the second, and fear pushes him to go even faster as he sprints down the third. 0A5THX47 is all the way at the end. Derek braces himself and jumps up, landing on the deck twenty feet up.  
  
There's only one man on deck and Derek knocks him out with one smooth punch. He can smell fresh fish coming from behind a door on the back of the ship and heads for it. He rips the door of its hinges in his haste and leaps clear over the staircase behind it. He follows his nose down another flight of stairs and into a narrow hallway. Thankfully, it's clear of people.  
  
Derek sniffs down the hallway to where the smell is strongest, and comes to a stop in front of another door. The room is massive, spanning what looks like the entire front half of the boat, and completely full of fish. "Stiles?"  
  
He hears a ragged moan and feels his heart leap to his throat. The sound came from the largest pile, all the way in the corner. Derek leaps over smaller piles of fish and skids over slippery wood until he's finally in front of the big pile. He shoves fish off of it, digging down until he sees a familiar flash of red scales. Derek drops to his knees and clears the rest of the fish in one sweep. " _Stiles_."  
  
Stiles is pale and breathing shallowly. He's unconscious. Derek takes a fortifying breath and lifts Stiles out of the pile, careful not to catch on any of his delicate fins. He makes it back to the top deck in record time, only to be confronted with a handful of angry fishermen.  
  
"Hey! You!" one shouts, pointing at Derek. "What are you— wait, is that—?"  
  
Derek growls and dives overboard, tucking Stiles close to his chest. The dive takes him twenty, thirty, forty, fifty feet and deeper into the water. Derek clutches at Stiles and feels water rush into his lungs. The last thing he sees is the sunlight filtering through the water and a pair of bright, golden eyes before everything fades to black.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are not fluff, which is my standard happy place. In recompense, [here's](http://themurderfamilybusiness.tumblr.com/post/86271268597) a really funny/cute comic I found on my dash, and it inspired Stiles' "egg pouch" comment in a previous chapter. My merfolk don't actually use seahorse reproductive methods, but hey, whatever. It's funny. Go away.
> 
> There isn't much left to this story, guys. One chapter, maybe two. I'm not sure if I'll dive in (ha, pun) to the sequel straight away, because I usually like to have things written far in advance, and I have a lot of words to write before I'll feel comfortable posting anything. Just, you know, an FYI. I'll make this story a part of a series that, if so interested, you can subscribe to it for the sequel. 
> 
> You're all amazing starfish. :)


	8. Bring Me to Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *sappy chapter title is obnoxiously sappy* *author doesn't give a fuck*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo! So, okay, it's been years since I've updated. Dog years. Maybe mouse years. Several fly generations, at least. It's been a long time, is what I'm saying. 
> 
> The first version of this chapter was mortifyingly abysmal, and I doff my imaginary hat to Ilovesocks_24 for managing to read it without having My Immortal flashbacks. I had to rewrite it, make it decent, and resend. You could hate me for the wait, or you could be grateful I didn't make your eyes bleed with the first version. (Maybe post as a non-funny blooper? Like when you see a video of someone totally faceplanting and you laugh but feel horrible inside?)
> 
> Beta'd by Ilovesocks_24, whom I respect so much for sticking around after this. What a champ, am I right?

Derek heaves awake, coughing violently. Water splatters out of his lungs and onto his jeans, a flash of warmth on the cold, wet fabric. Derek's vision swirls dangerously and he coughs again, forcing more water out of his lungs.  
  
He tries to blink past his disorientation but it looms even heavier. All he can hear is a dull, echoing roar, but he thinks there might something underneath the static, like a voice. He sucks in a breath and doubles over, choking, when he feels just how much water is still in his lungs.  
  
"—at's it, Derek! Keep coughing!" the voice says. Derek takes another painful breath and follows its instructions. His vision brightens and, as if on cue, his body flares in burning agony. _Loss of oxygen_ , he thinks distantly. As part of his training, Derek had to learn about the effects of continued oxygen deprivation on the body. Funny, but no one had ever told him how much it _hurt_.  
  
Derek closes his eyes and checks over himself in his mind to calm down. He's breathing, he can feel his fingers and toes (acutely), his heart is beating quickly but regularly: he's okay.  
  
How had he drowned? He's one of the best lifeguards in southern California. He shouldn't be drowning.  
  
"Sweet fucking Poseidon," the voice breathes, "thank you."  
  
Derek knows that voice. He trusts it. That's Stiles.  
  
 _Stiles_.  
  
All at once, his memory comes rushing back: Stiles' father, the hurry to find the fishing boat, searching for Stiles in piles upon piles of fish, diving into the water to save Stiles from a team of outraged fishermen. The last thing he remembers is plummeting down deep into the water. Stiles' surprisingly heavy weight combined with his own, and the near thirty feet he fell, must have made him hit the water hard and sink fast.  
  
God, no wonder his body hurts.  
  
"Stiles," Derek says roughly. It makes his throat burn, he ignores it. He finally blinks open his eyes. Stiles looks pale and terrified, but very much alive.  
  
"Fuck, Derek, you had me so scared," he says shakily. His eyes gleam and he scrubs at them with his fists. "You weren't breathing and I didn't know what to do. I don't know what happens when upwalkers inhale water, you know, and I think it's kind of rude of you to just expect me to save your life when you're supposed to be the one who knows how to do this stuff, and god, Derek," Stiles croaks, "I'm so happy you're okay."  
  
Derek hugs Stiles fiercely, even though it makes his body scream. "I thought I'd lost you," he mutters brokenly. "God, Stiles, I thought you were gone."  
  
"I'm not going anywhere," Stiles says, tucking his face into Derek's shoulder. "Never again."  
  
Derek squeezes his eyes closed until they hurt. The pain is leaching out of his body, only to be replaced by a desperate hunger that has him clutching at Stiles' cool skin. Stiles runs his hands over Derek's arms and back, like he, too, needs to confirm that Derek is really okay.  
  
"Wait, where are we?" Derek asks. He pulls back just enough to look around in concern. "Did anyone see you?"  
  
"Safe," Stiles says reassuringly, "I promise."  
  
They're in what appears to be a small, moon-shaped cove. The cliff curves into the water on both sides, secluding the beach from view. Stiles is right, they're safe. Derek slumps in relief.  
  
"I'm sorry," Stiles says suddenly. "I'm so sorry."  
  
"What?" Derek blinks at him, confused. "Why?"  
  
Stiles laughs self-deprecatingly. "Do you want the list?"  
  
"Stiles," Derek says, "it's not your fault you got caught."  
  
"Yes it is," Stiles retorts. "Every step of this entire fucked up series of events is my fault."  
  
"No, it isn't," Derek argues, "I'm the one who never came back. I'm the one who left."  
  
"Because I put too much pressure on you," Stiles exclaims, tugging at his coarse, spiny hair. "I put you in a bad position, Derek. I overreacted to that dumb movie because I was so confused with, I don't know, what was going on with us, or whatever, and I pushed you away. _I'm_ the one who left."  
  
"I wanted you to be safe," Derek says quietly. "You weren't putting pressure on me; or, at least, nothing I wasn't prepared to handle. But I'm just... I'm so..." Derek growls and presses his fingernails into his palms until his claws pierce the skin. "I'm a mess, Stiles, and I have been for a long time. I'm no good for you. That's why I stayed away. I was giving you up so you could move on."  
  
Stiles gapes like a fish out of water, and Derek would appreciate that joke if he wasn't so worked up. "You what?" Stiles asks, deadly quiet. "Say that again."  
  
"I gave you up," Derek says miserably. "I switched shifts with Boyd so I wouldn't work nights. I figured you would show up once or twice, realize I was gone, and find someone from your own species. Someone good for you."  
  
Stiles stares at him, speechless. Derek can scent hot anger coming off him in waves. "Someone good for me. Someo— are you fucking _kidding_ me right now?" His tail splashes in the water with a loud _thump_. "I basically tell you that I'm in love with you, and you think that means I'm just going to _move on_? What the fuck?"  
  
"Don't you see?" Derek says helplessly. "This, what's happening right now, it's what I do. I fuck up everything I touch."  
  
"Well _yeah_ , if you just up and leave, you sanctimonious finsucker," Stiles says, shoving Derek into the sand. "You didn't fuck up because you touched me, Derek, you fucked up because you _stopped_. I came by every single day to apologize, you know that? Every single fucking day. I tore myself up, thinking I'd ruined this, ruined _us_ , and why? So you could throw yourself a pity party? Fuck that, and fuck you."  
  
"My entire family died when I was sixteen, and it's my fault."  
  
Whatever Stiles was expecting to hear, that obviously wasn't it. "Come again?"  
  
Derek sighs. He hasn't told this story in years, but he knows Stiles deserves to hear it, at the very least. "When I was sixteen, I met someone, a human. Her name was Kate, and she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. She was older, confident, and sexy, and I fell for her fast. She knew just what to say to make me trip over my feet to please her. We got close, so close that I told her my secret. I told her I was a werewolf.  
  
"I should have known something was wrong, because she didn't seem shocked, like she should have been. But, at the time, all I saw was her acceptance, and I didn't care how strange it was. I told her everything, from how my claws had grown once I hit puberty to how my family locked themselves up on the full moon. We had little ones, pups, and they couldn't control themselves well enough to run in the forest, so we always went down into the basement and played around until the sun rose, instead."  
  
The cool air of the beach is stifling, but Derek breathes past it. He needs to get through this, for Stiles. "I told her everything because I trusted her.  
  
"There are people who hunts things non-humans like us. They think we're dangerous abominations that should be put down. Kate was a hunter."  
  
Stiles swallows apprehensively. "Please don't tell me she—"  
  
"She waited until the full moon, when she knew everyone would be in the house. She lined it with mountain ash, which we can't walk over, and she lit our house on fire. My family had no idea. They died screaming, clawing at the windows until they couldn't get enough air to scream, and they didn't have fingers to claw with."  
  
"Even the pups?" Stiles asks weakly.  
  
Derek flares his nostrils and stares down at the sand. "The coroners told me that they died first. 'Smoke inhalation does more to little lungs,' they said. Told me to be grateful their suffering was so short."  
  
Stiles wavers like he's about to fall over. Derek wouldn't blame him if he did; he's feeling a little unbalanced, himself. "How did you survive?"  
  
Derek digs his hands into the sand. "We were out of milk," he says, laughing mirthlessly. "The pups always drank milk after the full moon, and we were out. Laura and I were at the grocery store when it happened. By the time we came back, the house had crumbled. Everyone was gone."  
  
"I don't know what to say," Stiles whispers. "I'm so sorry, Derek. I had no idea."  
  
"It was a long time ago," Derek says hollowly. It feels like it was only yesterday.  
  
"Is that why you stayed away?" Stiles asks gently. "Because of the fire?"  
  
"The last time I loved someone, they burnt down my entire life." Derek removes his hands from the sand and dusts them off, scratching at the grit under his fingernails. "I'm not saying you're like Kate, but my love... it's killed fourteen people. I can't infect you with that."  
  
“You can't...” Stiles echoes, shaking his head. “That's not— do you really believe that? _Kate_ set that fire. She used you like that. It's not your fault, and if that's your excuse for staying away, I don't accept it. You can't kill people with love, Derek.”  
  
“I'm not saying it's rational,” Derek mutters, “but I can't help it. I've been carrying this around for ten years, Stiles. It's a part of me. And when I think about you, or us, I'm absolutely terrified I'm going to lose you, too. And I'd rather stay away from you and make sure you're safe than put you in danger.”  
  
“So what, you're just going to be alone forever? That's your plan?”  
  
“If that's what it takes.”  
  
“Tough shit, bud,” Stiles says firmly. “I'm not leaving, and whatever misgivings you have about making this work, we'll work them out together. You may be prepared to give up on this, but I'm not. Capisce?”  
  
Derek knows he should say no. He knows he should walk away and give Stiles a chance at a good life. But god, he had been so scared when Stiles was missing, and he's not sure he could handle never knowing if Stiles got that good life, after all. And fuck, he _wants_ this.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
Stiles inhales. “'Okay, I understand,' or 'Okay, I want this too?'”  
  
“Okay, we can try,” Derek replies. “It won't be easy, though.”  
  
“Dude, we _both_ just had near-death experiences,” Stiles says. “Define 'easy.'”  
  
“Touché,” Derek says. He grabs for Stiles' hand and traces the delicate webbing between his fingers. Stiles' breath catches. “So, what happens now?”  
  
“What happens now is I go check on my father, because he's probably shedding scales with worry by now,” Stiles says, “and you go do whatever it is you do with your time. And we hang out, sometimes, like we have been.”  
  
Derek feels a smile creep across his face. “Does that mean no kissing?”  
  
“Oh, fuck,” Stiles says succinctly. "No. Not like we have been, then. Lots of kissing."  
  
"I think we can do that," Derek says, leaning in to press his lips to Stiles'. The kiss is sweet and lingering, like it's the last balm they needed to finish this argument once and for all. Derek presses tiny kisses to the corners of Stiles' lips and his cheeks. "I'm sorry I let my emotional hang ups hurt you."  
  
"Apology accepted, as long as you promise to come to me about this stuff in the future," Stiles says, kissing Derek's palm. "I mean it. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry too. I should have been more careful in the shallows, so I wouldn't have got caught by the fishermen. And I'm sorry if I did anything to make you feel like you had to protect me from yourself."  
  
"You have nothing to apologize for," Derek says. Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but Derek cuts him off. "But I appreciate it anyway. And, while we're doing this, I'm sorry if I somehow insinuated that I wanted you to be my Ariel. You never have to change for me, okay?"  
  
"I know. I kind of knew it then, too," Stiles admits ruefully. "I was just scared because I had kissed you and you never brought it up so I thought you were rejecting me, and I was falling in love with you. You showed me that movie and my fears got the best of me, and I freaked out."  
  
 _I was falling in love with you_.  
  
"We're kind of bad at this, huh?" Derek murmurs lightly.  
  
"Yeah, we are," Stiles says, gleeful, "and it's awesome. Wanna know why?"  
  
"Why?"  
  
Stiles beams, looking like sunshine itself. "Because then we get to get better at it. Together."  
  
Derek traces Stiles' brilliant scales with the tips of his fingers. "You know, I think I really like the sound of that."  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so technically your stomach fills with water when you drown, not your lungs. But there's something distinctly unpoetic in saying "Derek threw up a bunch of water, then he dry-heaved while his love interest looked on, utterly disgusted by the wretched sounds of Derek puking saltwater." So yeah, inaccurate drowning is a thing I decided to do. If this has ruined my story for you, I apologize. ;)
> 
> The next chapter is the last chapter. *sadface.* BUT notice that this story is now a part of a series that you can totally subscribe to for more mer-Sterek funtimes, ~now with porn!~ *exultantface.*


	9. Looking Around Here You'd Think "Sure, They've Got Everything"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God. Kill me for these horrible chapter titles. Slay me where I stand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS. IT'S THE LAST CHAPTER. :'(
> 
> Even though there's a guaranteed sequel coming up, I feel really sad about this story ending. It's been such a beautiful ride with all of you. Thank you all so much for all of the kudos/subscribes/bookmarks/hits, and a special shoutout to those lovely people that left me a comment or two. You guys are all amazing, and thank you for sticking this out with me and being so supportive. MWAH for all of you!
> 
> Beta'd by Ilovesocks_24 AND Tumblr user backwards-blackbird. There were threats of technical difficulty, and two pairs of eagle eyes are better than one. 
> 
> ALSO, because she's a fucking gem and I love her, Megan (backwards-blackbird) suggested the ship name "Surf and Turf" for these two assholes. I love it. I'm also going to add the additional "Seas and Trees," "Moon and Lagoon," and "Leaf and Reef," because a joke isn't funny until you're way, way overdone it. :)

"Erica, no."

"Come on! It's only fair! We helped you with your romantic, heroic rescue mission, didn't we?"

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. "Erica."

Erica twists her face into a caricature of Derek's scowl. "Derek," she growls. "See, I can do it, too. Don't be a douchebag, we'll only stay for, like, ten minutes at the most! It'll be fun! Pleeaassse?"

"Fine!" Derek throws up his hands in defeat. "I'm heading over at noon, okay? But you have to give me a second to warn him before the three of you just bounce in and scare him to death."

"Yay!" Erica claps her hands and bounces, and Derek smiles reluctantly. "Oh, I'll go tell Boyd and Isaac." She kisses him on the cheek. "You're the best, Der."

"Yeah, yeah." He waves her off.

At noon, the four of them climb into Derek's Camaro (Derek takes vindictive pleasure in watching Erica and Isaac try to squeeze into the tiny backseat) and they take off for the cove. 

If Derek's being completely honest with himself, he's actually pretty nervous. He'd only seen Stiles once since what Stiles had dubbed the Great Rescue, and that was two nights ago. Stiles told Derek all about his homecoming, his father's gruff breakdown, and his newfound fame in the village. "Told you I'd make history!" he’d crowed. Derek had spent the night listening and holding Stiles in his arms, staring up at the night sky. Then, after Stiles had finished relishing in the "seriously convincing impression of an anglerfish" that was Jackson's dismay, he’d dropped the bomb on Derek. 

 

_"By the way, apparently Dad's men have been scouting that cove. We've known about it for a while, but we never really dared to stay there for long periods, you know? We weren't sure if it was safe. But Dad's men say that they haven't seen anyone stop by, even on boats. It seems to be completely abandoned. You know what that means, don't you?"_

_"What does that mean?" Derek asks absently. He's got an arm around Stiles, tracing the ridges on Stiles' spine and trying to memorize them by touch._

_Stiles sucks in a breath through his teeth and Derek feels Stiles’ body ripple against his side. "Rub me there again, and I'll completely forget what I'm trying to say."_

_Derek grins, all teeth. "What, here?" He presses his thumb on one of the smaller knobs._

_Stiles shivers and babbles unintelligibly. "Holy Man'O'War, Derek, yes, god."_

_Derek hums and moves his hand lower, stroking Stiles' hip, completely content. "Okay, then. What were you saying?"_

_"I hate you," Stiles hisses. Two pink spots have risen high on his cheeks, contrasting with the blue-gray of his skin._

_"No, you don't."_

_"You sure about that?"_

_Derek presses a kiss into Stiles' hair. "Positive."_

_"Yeah, yeah, okay," Stiles grumbles. "You win this time. But seriously, what was I saying?"_

_"The cove," Derek prompts._

_"Right!" Stiles brightens and shifts up so he's resting on one elbow, looking down at Derek. "It means that, tentatively, I can see you whenever I want. No more midnight rendezvous, no more sleeping through the day to make up for it. If this cove really is abandoned, we can use it as a meeting ground, whenever we want. Isn't that great?"_

_"Really?" Derek blinks up at Stiles, who is haloed by moonlight. "Yeah, that's great.” He catches a spare droplet of saltwater on Stiles' throat. "Wow, you're beautiful."_

_Stiles' kiss tastes of chocolate and seawater. "Yeah. Sucks I got hooked by such a— what was that word? Oh yeah— a troll._ "

 

If prompted, Derek couldn't say what's making him so nervous all of a sudden. He knows Stiles so well by now, this shouldn't be a problem. But there's a dynamic shift happening here. Midnight rendezvous, for all their impracticality, are romantic staples for a reason: it's a lot easier to hide scars and scabs in pale moonlight than in the brightness of the sun. Meeting Stiles like this raises the stakes of their relationship, makes it feel more permanent. Derek doesn't have commitment issues, really, and he's already basically committed himself to Stiles, anyway, but there's something daunting about taking such a large step forward.

Isaac printed off directions to the cove before they left, and he's insisting that they're here. Derek turns off the Camaro and steps out. He shoves the seat forward so Erica can wrestle her way out of the back seat, and together they take in the cliff face overlooking the ocean.

Boyd is the first to step up to the edge. "It's about a thirty foot drop," he says. "We could jump it."

"Yeah, but can we climb back up?" Isaac frowns. "Not a lot of handholds, there."

Derek shrugs. "We'll manage." Without further ado, he jumps off the cliff and lands on the sands below. It stings up his shins, but he stays standing. "Okay, guys," he calls up. "Let me talk to Stiles before you crowd around him. He's only ever met me, so he's bound to get overwhelmed."

"Aye aye, amigo," Erica salutes. "Give us the bat signal when you're ready." All three betas disappear over the edge of the rock and Derek, suddenly feeling alone and exposed, crosses his arms and waits.

It only takes a few minutes for Stiles to arrive, but they feel like hours. "Hey," Stiles says, smiling. Derek's breath catches in his throat. Stiles practically glows under the sunlight, gray lightening to shimmery white. Derek hadn't noticed it before because he was so focused on not dying and the subsequent heart-to-heart about his history, but now he sees that Stiles is absolutely radiant. 

"Wow," Derek says, stepping forward into the surf. "Hi. I missed you."

Stiles swims forward. "Listen, I would love to flirt right now," he says hurriedly, "but—" 

"I'm here," John finishes for him, popping above the water. "Derek."

"John," Derek greets. "How's the tribe?"

"Better, now that we have Stiles back." John's face, darker than Stiles', warms into worn, content wrinkles. "Thank you for that."

"Any time," Derek says seriously. Stiles beams at him.

"Hey fartface, can we come down yet?" Erica shouts.

"You brought others?" John asks, surprised.

"My roommates," Derek sighs, nodding. "All werewolves, and they've all sworn to keep your secret. They insisted on tagging along. They want to meet Stiles. I can tell them to leave, if you want."

"No, don't," Stiles says. "I want to meet your friends."

"We heard that!" Isaac calls, and they leap down a second later.

"Holy shit," Boyd whispers. "It's true."

Stiles kicks up his tail behind him, the show-off. "Indeedy! You're Boyd, right? And that one's Erica, and that's Isaac. Are you guys, like, all really good-looking? Like, is that a nightstalker thing, or a you guys thing?"

"Stiles," John chastises. "For pike's sake, one question at a time."

"Well, really, though!" Stiles exclaims. "Look at them! You know humans aren't this pretty, we've seen it!"

"You are completely not what I expected," Erica says, grinning. "You're Stiles? As in Derek's Stiles?" She turns to Derek, looking mischievous in a way that makes Derek nervous all over again. "You've been holding out on us. He's adorable."

"Too adorable," Boyd says. "He's legal?"

"I am _forty-seven_ ," Stiles groans, just short of a whine. Derek laughs at the expressions on the betas' faces.

"I forgot to tell you that, didn't I? Merpeople live for around two hundred years. Stiles is actually forty-seven years old. Legal enough?"

“I’d say,” Erica drawls. “Man, you’re looking good for your age.”

Stiles gives Erica a suggestive smile. “You’re not bad, yourself.” He scrunches one side of his face in a wink, and Erica cackles.

"I'm sure I don't want to know why you people are questioning my son's age," John interrupts warningly, "and its legality."

Derek can almost feel all three of his friends blush; it echoes the warmth pressing up his own cheeks. "Sir,” he says awkwardly, “in human culture it's considered inappropriate for someone my age to have any kind of relationship with someone under the age of consent, even if it's just a friendship. I promise there's nothing untoward going on." He mentally pats himself on the back for the diplomatic save.

"Yet," Stiles adds impishly. Derek's torn between wanting to kiss him and smack him, and settles for hiding his face in his hands.

"Stiles, you're going to make an early floater out of me, I swear," John sighs. "Derek, you're sure you want to deal with this one? He doesn't get easier."

Derek's throat clogs and he nods. "Yeah."

John nods his head decisively. "Then let me say my piece, and I'll leave you kids alone. Derek, last time we met, you asked me how I could walk on land."

Stiles gasps. "Wait, you went to Derek? I thought you said you caught him while he was in the water."

"I did. I lied." John doesn't bother looking guilty; Derek respects him for that. "I wasn't sure I could trust you with the truth just yet, Stiles, and I wasn't sure I could trust Derek to keep us safe. Now I know I can. 

"There's a plant, Stiles, that grows in the Cold Deeps. We call it the Dremora. It temporarily splits our fins into legs, but it only works for up to four hours. I cannot stress this enough, Stiles: this plant is not a quick fix. While human, you age as a human, and the more you use it, the more time you lose. I've seen mers wither and die sixty years before their time."

"Hold on, what?" Stiles shakes his head slowly. "Are you serious? Why did you keep this from me?"

"Not just you, Stiles: everyone. This plant is the most well-kept secret of our people. Can you imagine the kind of chaos that would ensue if all merfolk knew of the Dremora? How long would it take, do you think, for one of ours to forget the time limit and transform on dry land? How long before we're discovered? The plant's power comes with massive risks, which is why tribe leaders have ruled it for emergency use only."

"Then why tell him now?" Isaac asks curiously. "Sorry."

John nods to Isaac approvingly. "Good question. This situation is... unique. Merfolk haven't seen nightstalkers since the dark times, when humans were ruled by gods, not science. In many respects, you're like us: you live in secret from upwalkers and, from what I'm told, tend to stick together in the face of adversity."

"A wolf is nothing without a pack," Erica says, fistbumping Boyd.

"Precisely," John says. "My gut tells me that you would extend the same care and attention to my son, which is why I'm allowing Stiles to use the Dremora as he sees fit."

Stiles collapses underwater for a moment and comes up coughing. "Geez, Dad, you gotta warn a guy. Are you serious? But this means—"

"This means that we can be together." Derek swallows, though his mouth has gone dry. Despite their talk a few days ago, Derek had himself convinced that while they can try to make it work, there was no feasible way to keep this relationship alive in the long-term. When he said “okay,” he’d meant that he’d stop fighting against Stiles, not that he could guarantee a lasting relationship. He’d never expected something like this to fall into his lap. "Stiles."

Stiles blinks. "Next time we are alone, Derek, I am kissing you _so hard_."

"Poseidon grant me patience," John mutters. "Stiles, I expect to see you home by Evening Conch. We're going to discuss this. Gods only know how I'm going to explain this to the tribe. And you," he points at Derek, "you and I are going to have another talk, too, about why your friends seem intent on knowing my son's age, and the implications of being with a merperson."

"Holy squid, Dad," Stiles mumbles, mortified, "can we not?"

"Stiles, I am bending every rule in the book by even considering this," John admonishes. "I could always change my mind."

Stiles ducks his head guiltily. "No, that's fine."

"That's what I thought," John says. "Now, I have a tribe to lead. Evening Conch, Stiles." He waits for Stiles to nod before ducking under the water. Derek sees a forest green tailfin flip into the air a moment later.

Silence falls over the cove after John leaves. Derek doesn’t know how to break it, or if he even should. He supposes he should have figured there was some way for merpeople to walk around; he had, after all, met Stiles’ father in his home a few days ago. He’d been so focused on saving Stiles, though, that he’d completely forgotten about everything that wasn’t dedicated to his rescue.

But foresight or no, Derek is completely taken aback by John’s decision to let Stiles use the plant to be with him. It’s a huge deal. Stiles can walk. He can see Derek's house. They can go to an actual restaurant. He can take Stiles to a movie. It’s all possible now. They can have a real relationship.

"Wait," Stiles says suddenly, "does this mean we can do that thing you told me about?"

Derek flushes hot. He’d been trying to avoid thinking about _that_ aspect of real relationships. He'd only mentioned sex in passing to Stiles— he already struggled to control himself when they were talking about mundane things like cheese production, let alone the wonders of actual sexual contact— but, apparently, it had stuck. "Uh…." 

Isaac bursts into laughter. "Oh, Derek, you didn't," he snickers. Erica and Boyd join him, and Derek wants the sand to swallow him whole.

"I can see that I wasn't supposed to mention that," Stiles states. He sends Derek a guilty smile. "Never mind."

Derek sits down at the surf. "No, it's okay," he sighs. "I just forget sometimes that I live with _children_." 

"Hey, now," Boyd defends as the three betas join Derek at the water. "That's not fair. This is kind of a lot to take in all at once."

"I told you," Derek reminds Erica. "I said that this was a bad time to meet him."

"Oh, please," Erica drawls. "You've kept him to yourself for long enough. Besides, this is a big moment for you. It's the least we can do to stick around and make sure you're okay." She bumps her shoulder against Derek's and he leans into her without thought.

"So, hey, Derek's friends." Stiles swims up to the surf and wedges himself in the sand. "It's awesome to finally meet you." Derek’s grateful that he decided to drop the sex talk for the time being, more so when Stiles shoots him a tiny wink. A purposeful diversion, then. 

"Holy fuck," Isaac breathes, eyes glued to Stiles' tail. "You really have a tail."

Stiles looks over his shoulder at it. "Well, yeah. How do you think I get around?"

"It's _gorgeous_ ," Erica says, reaching out a hand. She stops just before she touches Stiles' scales. "May I?"

Stiles nods. "Just avoid touching my fins, okay? They're, uh, sensitive."

Derek feels his breath catch in his throat. Stiles has been rubbing his fins all over Derek since they first met. He wonders, for the first time, if maybe there was more to all that touching than he'd imagined.

The betas coo over Stiles' tail for a disturbingly long amount of time, even though Derek knows that’s hypocritical of him: he’s probably logged hours of tail appreciation time over the course of their relationship. Stiles, the shit, revels in the attention and tells them all about which fins do what, and how some members of his tribe spend hours polishing their scales to attract mates. "Scott spent an entire weekend rubbing hagfish jelly into his tail before his first date with Allison," he tells them, rolling his eyes.

"Oh yeah, how's that going?" Derek asks curiously. He’s always wondered about merfolk romance, but he never brought it up for fear of leading Stiles on. Now that that concern has been rendered null and void, he realizes that he wants to know _everything_ about merfolk culture.

"It's horrible," Stiles groans. "Do you know how often he comes home with teal scales stuck in his tail? It's revolting. He's freaking burgundy, for crying out loud! It's not like it's not obvious!"

"Ooh, mermaid drama, I like it," Erica says with a grin. She spots the jewelry on Stiles’ wrists and stops cold. “Hey, wait! I know those bracelets!"

Stiles looks down at his wrists. The bangles have lost almost all their shine by now, so much so that Derek’s curious why Stiles still wears them. "Oh, these were yours? They're very nice. Or, well, they were. Sorry about that." He shakes his arms so they jangle together. "Saltwater's a real bitch sometimes."

Erica laughs. "It's okay, I have more. Just tell me someone was jealous of them."

"Are you kidding?" Stiles pats the bangles happily. "These bad boys were the talk of the town for a week. Harris thought I'd assaulted a swimmer for them and tried to have me investigated. It was awesome."

They all burst into laughter, and liquid warmth pools high in Derek's chest. He wonders how they look from afar, the five of them circled up, joking around and laughing. He wonders, if his parents could see him now, what they would say about the family Derek's found. He touches the ring around his neck and looks up into the clouds. He wonders if they'd be proud. If they'd be happy.

God, he misses them.

"Hey, Derek," Stiles says, drawing his attention away from the sky. "You know, I’m thinking back, and Ariel should’ve given honesty a chance. I mean, look at us, right? No muss, no fuss. You, me, a pair of legs and a tail… it worked out anyway, didn’t it?"

Derek grins, and it's broad and honest. "You know, I think it did."

His parents would be ecstatic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HECK YEAH THEY WOULD, YOU BEAUTIFUL FUCK.
> 
> Sorry. I love Derek a lot.
> 
> Again, thank you all so very, very much for letting this fic into your life, and thank you to the people who have already started to subscribe to or bookmark the series. I promise to have the sequel out soon. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm a shameless comment whore, so please feel free to drop me a word or two!


End file.
